Wasted Time

She wasn’t much of a clean freak, that was for sure.  Sitting on her tapestry-draped couch with her thin legs crossed high at the thighs, she leaned heavily on her elbows as she stared methodically at her perfectly manicured nails.  She ignored the dust circling through the air and landing unceremoniously on her celebrity-magazine covered coffee table as well as the beeping of the coffeemaker in the kitchen alerting her that her brew was ready and had actually been ready for quite some time.  She wasn’t sure she’d be drinking it, not alone at least.

If her eyes had not fixed themselves so obsessively on her maroon colored nails, they might have traveled to the closed door that separated her from the rest of the world.  Someone was to have knocked on that door some time ago but she’d all but resigned herself to fixating on the next worldly problem – when would the first chip occur in her polish and how long after that until there were more and how long after that until she’d have to give in on this round and remove what was left so she could start all over again.

There was no knock, after all.  What else should she be thinking about on this warm afternoon in the thick of a New England fall?  The changing of the leaves or the adding of layers of clothes with each progressing day?  Should she allow her mind to skip ahead to winter when she’d walk with her face turned down towards the ground to avoid the glare of the harsh sun against the relentless white of snow?  No, it made more sense to stay grounded here, on her couch, with her legs pressed tightly together, her straight blonde hair hanging at attention just past her shoulders.

Sooner or later, though, the light outside wouldn’t be enough to sustain her and she’d have to move and when she would, her eyes would drift anywhere but towards that unanswerable door.  To the box in the open hall closet that was intended to be a gracious means of transportation for his belongings to wherever he’d like those belongings to reside now that it wasn’t with her.  If she let herself, she would imagine exactly what could fit in that box, maybe even things he hadn’t left behind, but things that were important to them – backstage passes to The Black Keys won on a radio show, a trophy from their kickball team, faded photos of them pressed together at places like beaches or reunions or ski slopes.  If that empty box was packed just so, it would contain everything he would need to remember what he was losing and she’d be rid of it without regret.

Theirs was a breakup of her design.  You’ll have to leave now, she’d said softly with clear eye contact.  It had been weeks since the whole thing happened right here in this room, sitting side-by-side, dulled and silent.  His eyes had widened for a moment before he swallowed hard and said, But I can help you.  She had stood up and walked to the door.  Opening it, she had said, I can help myself.  After he had disappeared through this portal to the outside world, she’d felt her entire being light up like a golden flame and that is how she knew she had done the right thing.

They met when he stopped her in the middle of a park in the suburb of Boston where she’d grown up and asked her where she’d found the blue flower stuck behind her ear.  She’d smiled at him and something zipped close inside her, something snug and comforting and warm.  This was a good man who would love her – she knew it right away and he figured it out soon enough. 

If only he was free to love her -- that was the only setback.

And technically, he was.  His wife knew she wasn't the only one and so he never apologized for nights they spent apart.  His capacity to love was greater than average -- and wife or not, she felt fulfilled of the promise he'd made that first night together -- I will be here for you, anything you need, any time at all.  And it was all she needed for a long time.  Their time together was precious, not wasted.  Not wasted, that is, until a holiday rolled around or his birthday -- then she realized their time was borrowed, shared, not their own.  Her friends avoided direct eye contact with her when she'd talk about him, good things and bad.  They wanted more for her and she could feel that want in her gut more and more each withering day.

Then one morning and she woke up and realized she couldn’t get out of bed.  The sheer weight of life pressed down upon her as he zipped up his jeans and threw on a t-shirt to go on with his day without her.  He said he'd be back and he would but her eyes unfocused and she lost track of time.  She half-slept with her mouth open and stared at the dust circling through the air.

For days she barely moved, barely spoke, refused all contact with the outside world -- even when he used his key to come in and spoon beside her in bed and talk about his day and try to coax her to have a story of her own. She could feel his concern but she could feel him being too late.  And when she finally was able to sit up straight and stare at her long-since neglected nails, she knew what had to be done.  First, she needed to stand on her own two feet.  Second, she needed to move her two feet out of this sad room.  And third, she needed to take care of her nails.  She felt a certain thrill leaving the apartment and heading towards the nail salon two blocks over.  She felt a certain thrill knowing that he’d come to see her and find her gone.  Her mind raced with the conclusions he might draw.  He’d never guess she’d gone out get her nails done.  And the whole time she was at the salon, she thought and thought and thought about what had kept her trapped in bed for so long, what had prevented her from listening to his attempts to rally her, what had locked her down and by the time her nails were completely dried, her eyes widened for a moment before she closed them.

She needed her life back.  There.  That was it.  She got up and left the salon and walked triumphantly through the door to find their shared space empty.  Her shoulders sagged as her intended effect was lost when he showed up behind her moments later and she’d flinched when he’d touched her on the arm.  We need to talk, she said.

After he was gone, she’d swept her arms around life and let it seep into her with abandon.  Men came home with her whenever she asked them to and she imagined the one she’d sent away standing in the corner, watching her as she sprawled with these new suitors on the couch or curled intimately with them in her feather bed.  She could almost still feel his arms around her in the shower and she could nearly feel his breath kiss her face as the mornings dawned.  She’d watch these new men drink from his favorite coffee cups and stare at paintings he’d selected and it caused a thrilling flash through her to see these men-who-weren’t-him take these things in without knowing a thing about their history.  They didn’t realize they were in a haunted house and she was in no hurry to tell them, either.

She was never in a hurry about anything, it seemed.  She felt warm and content sitting on her couch as the dust swirled around her and the polish on her nails remained intact.  Maybe that knock on the door would never come.  No matter.  It was all just wasted time.

This short story was written in 2013

Based on the Anomopoly song "Wasted Time"

E is for Enchiladas

"If God dwells inside us like some people say He does, 

I hope He likes enchiladas because that's what he's getting."

~ Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey

I.

I've only ever been impressed by one car in my entire life and it was a Cadillac Escalade.  My best friend from college, Corey, and her fiance-at-the-time, Mike, had rented a pair of white ones for their wedding party to drive around in on the wedding day.  She picked me up from the airport in one and I felt genuinely gorgeous in the posh, elevated, extravagant, unnecessarily over-the-top sensation of being in this super rad vehicle.  That whole weekend, man.  It was one of the best of my life.  Getting picked up from the airport in an Escalade was just the start of unforgettable, wonderful experiences.  

II.  

True story:  my younger brother Josh once fell into the Euphrates River.  The Euphrates, as you may or may not be aware, is a major waterway in Western Asia.  It is also extremely polluted.  My brother took a tumble into the water, much to the chagrin of the people he was with, and a delicate cleanup procedure had to be implemented.  I can only imagine the whole scene -- my brother is extremely tall and very friendly and Mid-Western.  How could anyone get angry at this lovable giant?  They couldn't!  But grumpy -- they could definitely be grumpy.  And the cleanup?  It was a success.

III.

Once for Tom's birthday, I gave him a DVD of the movie Stepbrothers.  I thought he'd think it was funny.  I gave it to him at a trivia night at The Druid in Inman Square, handing it over in a felt gift bag shaped like a ladybug, a symbol that is of extreme importance to me.  The bag had handles that Tom looped around his wrist like a handbag, clutching the gift to his chest for the rest of the evening as we played trivia with our friends and drank beer and whiskey and it's one of the most endearing memories I have of him.

IV.

On my flight to Ohio this Christmas, there was a girl a few rows behind me who cried -- moaned -- for the last thirty minutes of this seventy-five minute flight.  She was maybe eight and only slightly eclipsed by the two-year-old who sat directly behind me kicking my seat with great gusto for the entire seventy-five minutes while he parents cheered at a football game they were watching.  Near the end of the flight, as the girl's moaning increased, so did her mother's frustration as she said through audibly gritted teeth, "Have a DRINK, Margot."  Have a drink, Margot.  We all wanted a drink, Margot.  And we all got one as soon as the plane landed and we dispersed to our final destinations.

V.

I knew God was real when I was eight-years-old. I was kneeling in church during a Maundy Thursday service.  Maundy Thursday is part of the Christian Easter holiday -- it's "Good Friday Eve," the day celebrating The Last Supper and other events leading up to Jesus' crucifixion.  During the service, the altar is stripped of everything -- the ceremony is very moving.  And the first time I ever experienced it, the minister, George Ross, had the church lights dimmed  and the most poignant organ music playing.  I was in the choir so I was so close to it all.  There were no words spoken -- only actions -- only movement -- only event.  It was the most beautiful thing I have ever experienced in my life.  I knew right then, without explanation or need for one, that God was part of this human experience, and it filled me with the most powerful form of love.

Written for the ABC's of 2016 blog project

Christmas Song

Come they told me, pa rum pum pum pum

A newborn king to see, pa rum pum pum pum

Our finest gifts we bring, pa rum pum pum pum

To lay before the king, pa rum pum pum pum

So to honor him, pa rum pum pum pum

When we come

 

 

It was three days before Christmas and their parents had left them home alone.  It wasn’t unusual – this brother and sister dynamic duo had braved long hours solo before and they weren’t afraid.  If anything, they were excited to see their parents blow air kisses in their direction as they whisked out the door.  This would give the children time to look for their presents, since the elder sister had finally broken it to the younger brother that Santa Claus wasn’t real.

“Mom and Dad hide the presents in the attic,” the sister said as she turned the carols up on the stereo.  “When they leave, we’ll look up there.”

The brother was still feeling dizzy from the realization that his entire childhood had been a lie up until this point.  He only half-trusted his sister as it was and he wasn’t certain she was right about this news, except that he’d asked around at school and everyone else in the second grade seemed to be privy to the same information as she was. 

“Dummy, you still believe in Santa?” one of the boys chided.  “Dummy.”

He wanted to retort that his sister was in the fifth grade and she’d only known for a year and a half but he didn’t bother.  Details like that were unimportant in a cafeteria powwow like this one.

He felt similarly powerless when his sister turned, eyes gleaming, towards him and said, “Good, they’re gone, let’s get up there.”

She was afraid of nothing, not the dark, not thunderstorms, not even spiders.  He was afraid of all of those things and they seemed to be converging on him in this moment as rain began to pelt the window with a ripe roll of thunder ripped across the lower register while his sister grabbed him by the hand, pulling him down the dark hallway to the door leading up to the cobwebby attic.  Standing outside, she rubbed her hands together with determination and turned the handle.  Downstairs, “Angels We Have Heard On High” blared from the speakers.

“Shit,” she said.

The attic door was predictably locked.  Their parents had a strict rule about the children not playing up there and they knew it, but for some reason, the sister had blocked that out of her mind – or perhaps she thought her sheer force of determination to get up there would burst open any locks standing in her way.  The brother stood meekly beside her, partially relieved at this expected turn of events but also worried because he was certain his sister wouldn’t give up so easily.

“Let’s play hide and seek,” she said slowly.

“It’s too dark,” he said.  

“Nonsense,” she said.  “You go hide and I’ll seek, OK?”

He turned begrudgingly away from her and moved in a slow trot downstairs where there were at least some lights on, leaving his sister to mull over her options in the dark.  The sister stared at the locked door for a moment tapping her finger against her lip and then turned quickly on her heels into her parents’ room.  Her mother had a jewelry box in the top dresser drawer that she was specifically forbidden to touch because of the valuables it contained.  The sister knew, in her heart, that this is where she’d find the key.

Downstairs, the brother crouched on the cool kitchen floor behind the island their father installed himself that summer and waited for his sister to come and find him.  Outside, the rain had picked up and was steadily pelting the kitchen window.  Every time the thunder clapped, he shook a little more, wrapping his arms tightly around his knees.  Not even Bing Crosby singing “Silent Night” could assuage his fears.  Where was she already, he wondered.  Finally, he got up and peeked around the island to see if she was doing that creepy thing she liked to do and stare at him from the staircase.  But she wasn’t there.  Moving slowly, he crawled back up the stairs to the hallway where he’d left her.

“Sis?” he called when she didn’t immediately appear, exasperated that he wasn’t hiding like he was supposed to. 

Outside, the wind howled and roared as the rain turned to sleet and pelted the windows.  Otherwise, things were still and silent.  He crept slowly down the empty hallway back to the attic door and instinctively turned the knob. It opened effortlessly.  Blinking in confusion, he rocked weight between his feet and tried again.

“Sis?” he called.

The wind sounded so much louder from the bottom of that enclosed stairwell.  He could hear nothing but the storm – the carols were shut out and replaced by this terrible phase of winter coming inside his home.  He was drawn forward, up the stairs, one by one, and when he reached the top, he felt an awful chill as his eyes fixed on a window likely broken by a wayward tree branch, floorboards warping even more than was typical.  The old white velvet Christmas tree skirt with the red wine stains lay over a wooden chest and he moved towards it, getting his socks wet as he went along.  Their mother had bought a new tree skirt this year – a cotton one that wasn’t anything fancy but it also wasn’t the one her now-dead mother had given them. 

“Grandma won’t mind a change in tradition,” their mother had said as the children protested the change.  “Out with the old, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Ow,” the brother said as his foot rocked over something sharp.  He looked down with worried eyes as a tiny spot of blood seeped out through his white sock.

“Be careful,” his sister hissed in his ear, appearing out of nowhere. 

He jumped and stumbled away from her, sliding on the floor.  “I stepped on glass,” he said.

“I see,” the sister mused.

“How’d you unlock the door?” he asked.

“Found the key in Mom’s jewelry box,” she said.  ”Our presents are over in the corner.”

The brother followed the direction of her gesture and sat up a little taller.  “Anything good?”

“Everything we asked for,” she said with a shrug.  Reaching over, she helped him to his feet.  “Let’s go take a look at your foot,” she added.

The brother stood still.  “I want to see,” he said.

“Why?” she asked.  “You’re bleeding all over.”

They both shivered as the wind and rain blew towards them. 

“Did I get a drum set?” he asked hopefully.

“You’ll have to wait and be surprised,” she said with her tongue sticking out.

He balled his fists and pursed his lips together.  “I’ll just come up here by myself and look,” he sputtered.

“No you won’t, you chicken,” she laughed.  “You’d never come up here unless you were under adult supervision.”

“You’re not an adult,” he said.

“I’m not afraid,” she retorted.

“You got to look,” he said.  “You tricked me and made me go hide while you came to see what we were getting for Christmas.”

The sister shrugged.  “I knew you’d have, ya know, moral qualms about digging through Mom’s stuff to find the key.”

“You know I’m afraid of thunderstorms,” the brother went on, his lips quivering.  “You know I hate the dark.  But you left me alone anyway.”

“I didn’t leave you in the dark,” the sister said.

“I want to see,” the brother said again.

“After we clean up your foot,” the sister said, taking his arm.

“No,” the brother said, jerking backwards and losing his balance. 

It was as if life was suddenly in slow motion.  The brother took a poorly planned step back in an attempt to right himself but instead he slipped over the edge of the staircase and fell backwards down the steps in a percussive tumble.  The sister stood stock still, her hands frozen in midair with her eyes fixated on the trail of blood he’d left behind.

 

Years later, the sister sat in yet another therapist’s office gripping the edge of an Italian leather chair telling the story of the day the brother became paralyzed. It was all my fault, she said for the hundredth time.  I was so close, I could have saved him, I could have stopped it, I could have made sure none of it happened at all.  She paused as she always did in the retelling.  “Little Drummer Boy” was on the stereo while I dialed 9-1-1.  I cry every time I hear that song.  Sometimes I turn it on in the dark during thunderstorms and just cry and cry.  Maybe that sounds crazy, doc, but that’s the magic of Christmas to me.  As she paused, the therapist sat blank faced and waited for her to go on.  

"Christmas Song" was written in 2013

Inspired by "Christmas Song" by Anomopoly

I Am Whoever Facebook Says I Am

Has social media ever made you feel less popular than you are in your real life?  It's done that to me.  Sure, I have the standard-issue many hundreds more Facebook associates than any human should really have and a decent Twitter following and more people with me on their Instagram feed than I have on my own, but I am confident that people don't like me on the internet.  Weird, eh?  Weird that I have come to this conclusion, that I have thought about it at all, that I have evidence, even, to back my statement up.  

Maybe what I mean is people don't necessarily publicly support me on social media.  I write a daily blog that involves some "audience participation," and maybe 20% of my viewing audience actually plays along. I know people are reading because, one, I can see the stats, and, two, people tell me they are and can prove it by being able to converse with me in person about it -- but these same people can't or won't take the two seconds required to click the "like" button on their Facebook newsfeed -- and I find it fascinating and mysterious and baffling all at once.  What makes someone take those two seconds -- what makes it worth it?  What makes it not worth it when it comes to me?  The only logical conclusion is, of course, that I am not very popular.  Either that or I just suck at Facebook.  

Kindly do cue the violins, please.

Or better yet, read on...  Recently, my friend Jenn posted an article called "I Quit Liking Things on Facebook for Two Weeks.  Here's How It Changed My View of Humanity."  The author did just as the title suggested and found it not only changed her entire Facebook experience but it changed her newsfeed as well.  She talks about feeling guilty at first for not clicking the "like" button -- as if she were withholding support -- but then found it more satisfying to post an actual comment about why she liked what she was seeing.  It "brought the humanity back to Facebook."  It also prevented the Mighty Facebook Algorithm from overrunning her newsfeed with stuff that wasn't interesting to her.  Goddamn if I don't LIKE the hell outta this!  Since reading the article, I have "liked" maybe three posts on Facebook and winced a moment later.  I need to do this challenge myself -- I need to take my newsfeed back!  What ARE my friends up to, anyway? 

Because, as we all know, every time we log in, Facebook asks the same question:  What's on your mind?  I guess this is what's on mine and has been for quite some time -- how and why and who and when?  How do people interpret this seemingly innocent question -- do people even think about it before they post an update or add a photo?  Why do people feel compelled to answer it -- who do they hope will see what they post and when do they decide it's time to answer this question, ever present and ever ready for whatever you want to throw at it.  I can answer these questions for myself -- I interpret the question as an easy prompt to get you to say anything at all (the brilliance is in its innocence and simplicity); I feel compelled to answer it when I want to "think out loud" and hope someone will hear it; I hope people who care about me will see it (which of the hundreds of you do?); I post when I want some validation, plain and simple.  Maybe you would answer these questions differently than me -- I'm sure Facebook knows there are an untold number of different answers, anything to spark the debate and keep the conversation flowing.  Maybe Facebook doesn't even have to care anymore, though, really, since we're our own self-fulfilling prophecy.  If you build it, they will come.  In droves.  Forever.

I am not a sociologist, but much in the same way George Costanza always looks for an excuse to pretend he's an architect, I boast of my affinity for the field of study and its relevance to, well, everything human.  Social media is a whole new and rapidly changing mode for humans to gather, to form groups, to include or exclude, to define.  To quote Jeff Goldblum's character Dr. Ian Malcolm in Jurassic Park, "Scientists were so busy figuring out if they could, they never stopped to think about if they should."  Builders of social networks are turning into the same sort of Dr. Frankenstein-brand mad scientists who have made the technology accessible to anyone with basic computer skills to manipulate in whatever way he or she sees fit.  That is an awesome (re: definition -- extremely impressive or daunting; inspiring great admiration, apprehension, or fear) responsibility for this "reality tv show" generation where we can be the heroes of our own story, written, directed, and produced by, well, ourselves.  In Facebook we trusted.

And we sure do -- look at how much Facebook dictates social agendas.  We "friend" people -- whether they're actual friends, romantic partners, co-workers, long lost others, relatives, or casual bystanders.  We use words like "Facebook Official" when it comes to life events -- romantic partnerings, pregnancies, births, marriages, new jobs, you name it.  With two different friends, I was involved in debates over when they should announce their pregnancies and engagements To The World -- make their news "FBO."  I have other friends who broke off their romantic relationship and they both stated the most difficult thing about the situation was not packing up and and moving out of their apartment but the night they got together to remove their "In a Relationship" status on Facebook.  This stuff is powerful -- its presence on our newsfeeds carries significant weight.  And that is an astounding truth.

I have almost 900 Facebook friends currently, and I can only use my experience with these individuals to shape my argument.  I have no doubt that your group of friends, be it larger or smaller or exactly the same, might be yielding a different experience for you, and that's cool.  As I've said, I am not a psychologist or sociologist or an -ist of any variety.  I have a BA in English Lit and an MFA in Creative Writing.  This is not a widely researched, scientific study of any kind.  This is an opinion-based piece using the empirical data of my life.  I would like to thank The Internet and Society for giving me permission to do so.  And I would like to thank you for reading.

That is all the disclaimer I will provide.

When I visit my Facebook newsfeed, I find three basic types of contributers:  the personal-over-sharers, the "shamless pluggers," and never sharers.  The "shameless pluggers" I'll come back to and the never sharers need no definition, I'd assume, while the personal-over-sharers are those people who show up repeatedly on my newsfeed -- three, four, eight, twelve times a day -- updating me about what they're having for lunch, what the guy on the train said to them, a selfie to capture how they felt about last night's Game of Thrones, where they're having a drink after work and with whom.  Within this category, they branch into The Comedians, The Illiterates, and The Debbie Downers.  The Comedians are always trying to out-witty themselves and everyone else with their clever puns and their over-the-top anecdotes.  They are funny motherfuckers and you know it because their Facebook wall proves it.  Ad nauseum.  Thought these are easily my favorite group of over-sharers.  The Illiterates can't spell worth shit and never seem to have learned basic grammar, which is insane because many of them I was in school with at some point or other and am fairly certain they took an English class or two.  "UR" does not spell anything, folks.  Stop using it. AND STOP USING ALL CAPS.  IT IS THE LITERARY EQUIVALENT OF SHOUTING AND IT FREAKS ME OUT.  And The Debbie Downers, of course, are always asking you to pray for them or their sick cat or other socially awkward things that are the equivalent of "I ask, 'How are you, Person-I-Barely-Know?' and you say, 'Well, Person-I-Also-Barely-Know, I got laid off and my dog died and my mother's in the hospital again and my kid has diarrhea.'"  Oh, um...  I'm sorry to hear that?  Not to say that these people shouldn't have the chance to express their concerns, but maybe not to all one thousand of your Facebook associates?  Maybe there are people close to you who should hear this and not the rest of us?  I know for a personal fact it's possible to be going through hell and keep it offline.  Airing your sad or dirty laundry to the masses probably isn't going to heal you the way you want.  At least I know it wouldn't heal me.  

I was chatting with my friend Elliott the other day about how I was writing this post and how when I was fairly young, my mother had warned me, pretty sternly, to be very very careful about what I chose to put in writing because you cannot take that back.  What you put in writing is forever.  You can say things in the heat of any moment and while those things can certainly have a lasting effect, the memory of how that shit went down will change over time until it completely fades or has distorted enough that its reliability isn't so grand anymore.  But the things you write down can be read over and over and over again.  And things you write on the internet?  There's no eraser big enough to destroy that evidence.  Think about that before you post.  This is your legacy.

When I first got involved in social media, it was MySpace and I was way late to the party.  Facebook was already in existence but just for college students, so we civilians were busy ranking our friends in order of favorite to least favorite and choosing songs for our profiles and all I could think about was how insanely glad I was that such a site didn't exist when I was a teenager.  I could picture all the drama of shifting your friends in and out of your "Top Ten" according to a childish whim and the whiplash of hurt or flood of joy it could cause, depending on whether you were in or out.  I actually remember one of my friends who would find out if he and his girlfriend had broken up (again) or not based on whether he was her #1 Friend or not in the ranks at all.  AND THESE WERE ADULTS.  Shit.  Kids wouldn't stand a chance if adults couldn't be mature about it.  I think by the end of my MySpace time, I only had local bands I liked as my "Top Friends" and by then it didn't matter because everyone had made the jump to The Facebook.

Yeah, I called it The Facebook.  Deal.

My friends Whitney and Tom laid the most pressure on me to make the switch and when I finally did, I was initially pretty underwhelmed by this social media promised land.  Of course, this was in 2008 and the Facebook landscape has changed drastically since then.  I did soon discover, however, that every single person I'd so much as gone to summer camp with was on this site -- and it was easy to find them because they used their real names instead of screen names like on MySpace (where I was "TheBigBad" for most of my tenure).  Before I knew it, I was reconnecting with people I hadn't seen since my childhood and there was a sense of delight about it.  It didn't take long for me to amass over 200 "friends" and then over four hundred and so on...  I think the maximum number of connections I had on MySpace was maybe 170 and I thought that was absurd -- "Who knows that many people?" I had huffed -- yet on Facebook my number climbed rapidly and easily -- and continues to do so to this day.  I am fairly liberal about who I add as a "friend" and whose friend requests I'll accept -- but that is because of the type of sharer I am -- the "shameless plugger."  I like my posts to benefit the greater good -- promoting a friend's band, an event that is local and awesome, my place of work, and, most recently, my own writing.  The Shameless Plug is meant to support something or someone that is near and dear to my heart.  And the bigger the audience, the more chances there are for people to click on the link or listen to the song or at least have heard of [insert name of personplaceorthing being plugged], and for me, that is the good of the media.  Malcolm Gladwell said it best in The Tipping Point:

"Simply by finding and reaching those few special people who hold so much social power, we can shape the course of social epidemics. In the end, Tipping Points are a reaffirmation of the potential for change and the power of intelligent action. Look at the world around you. It might seem like an immovable, implacable place. It is not. With the slightest push -- in just the right place -- it can be tipped."

Be that change you wish to see in the world.  Bring those hidden treasures to the masses.  Shine that light.  It's a grand and personal way to change a tide.  And for me, it's the ONLY reason for social media.

Which isn't to say I didn't also use it to post other things -- funny things that happened or photos I thought were pretty (especially sunsets -- y'all know...), all kinds of things.  But after the advent of the before-mentioned "like" option, I took the slow road to embitterment about what was happening on Facebook -- on my own page and on my newsfeed.  Suddenly the "like" became psychologically powerful and getting "likes" could literally affect moods and become part of the offline dialogue.  I can't tell you how irked I've gotten in the past when someone had said out loud to me, "Oh, I really liked that photo you posted earlier," and I've had to bite back the snarky reply of "Well, technically, you didn't 'like' it."  Shouldn't I be happier that someone has taken the time to speak to me in person about what they saw and share their admiration face-to-face than taken the time to click a button on the internet that essentially means nothing?  Well, yeah, I should, but I wasn't.  And I hated that about myself.  I hated that my reaction was to decide this person didn't want others to know he or she liked what I was posting -- where people could see the public approval -- and that I needed to get a fucking grip.  So this winter I all but stopped posting things on Facebook.  I kept posting The Untitled Blog's daily posts because this choose-your-own-adventure story's voting happened via The Book.  But all of my other posting stopped.

And it was interesting.

People started asking me what was wrong, why I wasn't going out anymore, if I was feeling OK.  At the start of each of these conversations, I was incredibly confused and then immediately understood -- I wasn't telling my Facebook audience what I was doing so they thought I'd gone into early retirement.  Nope.  I just wasn't publishing what I was doing anymore.  And the ironic part, friends, is because you weren't validating me enough to make it worth it.

How insane is that bag of apples?

Some people have no problem getting their every whim validated by the admiring hoard.  Anything they post immediately gets a host of likes and a long list of comments.  Some of these people are "local celebrities" of some variety (on the music scene, for example) and I don't really count them in the commentary to follow because the odds are decent that many of the interactors are looking to be noticed by a musician (etc) who they may never have actually even met.  I am talking about everyday folks that are as much a celebrity as I am.  I was out having drinks with my friends Anne and Leslie the other night and we were joking about this topic a bit and I was saying, "I could cure cancer and maybe twelve people would bother to 'like' it," to which Les quipped, "And then you'd write a book about your discovery..." to which I replied, "And that would get probably fourteen likes."  Yeah, OK, I know, I'm being overly dramatic about it.  But it's hard not to get sarcastic about it when I see statuses that are about as banal as you can get or out of focus photographs with a host of people interacting with them while I post something I think has some depths and it's radio silence.  No one.  I don't know much but I do know that there isn't a single person who posts something on Facebook and doesn't want someone to interact with it.  Anyone.  Hello, is this thing on??  Why post it otherwise?  There are plenty of articles I read or videos I watch that I don't post -- so if I'm posting it on my wall, I'm certainly looking for commentary or approval or, hell, even disapproval.  Something.  And it's only that much more frustrating when other people post things that don't seem to be very interesting yet they get a ton of response.  And it's even WORSE when the gross-overshares (we don't EVER need to hear about your burning bowel movements, chunky barf, picked scabs, or picked noses, thank you very very much) are positively reinforced.  YES PLEASE FILL MY NEWSFEED WITH ALL OF YOUR DISGUSTINGNESS AND IMMATURITY.  PLEASE AND THANK YOU.  Yeah, I'm sorry for your discomfort, but there is such a thing as too much information and we all need to be pals and accept those text messages, emails, and phone calls, but not those Facebook posts.  Make the world a better place.

And that is exactly what some people like you to believe they are doing.  I have two friends in particular who do this on the regular and I like both of them so much in person that I wish I had never met their Facebook personas.  Not surprisingly, these people are typically over-sharers, but there's a brand of them who do so in a sneaky and manipulative way.  They tag a lot of people in their posts (which practically guarantees at least that selected group of people will like it) and/or they use manipulative language designed to make the casual reader feel that they are certainly an asshole if they don't click the like button.  Usually, these posts are long and full of flowery language about changing the world or empowerment or being brave or self-sufficient -- and so on and so forth.  I see these posts, posted fifteen minutes ago and already with 25 likes, and all I really see is through them.  This person wants -- needs -- validation about this life decision, whether big or small, and they have learned how to get it from Facebook.  Buzzwords.  Because if you don't like that this person has achieved or overcome or reinvented, then you are certainly an asshole.  Yeah, OK, then I'm an asshole, because I believe you can reinvent and overcome and achieve, but not with the frequency these people do.  And how often are these people talkers and not doers?  Almost always.  Have these ideas and thoughts -- be empowered and brave and successful.  I like the hell out of all of these things.  But being this person solely on Facebook is sad and almost the opposite of all those strong words.  I've said it once and I'll say it again -- be the change.  Be it.

And maybe think a little before you post -- if your friend list looks anything like mine, then you've got an assortment of people close to you now who are likely the demographic you are intending as your audience.  But you probably also have older relatives or family friends or people you haven't seen since summer camp or maybe even younger kids -- teenagers, your friend's children.  My boss' two 'tweenage sons are on my list.  I try to keep profanity at a minimum and, in general, ask myself if I'm cool with EVERYONE on my list seeing this post. The same goes with commenting.  Give yourself that three seconds to consider if you really want to say what you're about to say.  And, for the love of all that is good and holy, if you are a parent, please think before you post about your children.  How would you feel if your parents, aunts, uncles, babysitters, anyone posted about your bowel movements or anything else that should be kept "in the family" -- these kids growing up today will never know what privacy is.  Their entire lives are already being played out for the entertainment of a largely unmonitored audience and I am thankful every day that such social media didn't exist when I was growing up.  It's hard enough being an adult and dealing with the repercussions of social media -- I don't know how in the heck teenagers are supposed to understand how to use it properly.  

Unless comedian Pete Holmes is right and The Government invented Facebook:

"I think the government made Facebook in an attempt to make privacy uncool. Think about that. I think that's true 'cause they don't have to tap our phones or survey us when we just yield to them everything, just on our own free will. Home address? It's a little weird, OK. Phone number? Call me. Photos? Photos of everyone I know? Here, let me tag those for you."

This is an age where everyone lives online -- Facebook, LinkedIn, Instagram, Pintrest, Tumblr, Twitter, blogs, websites, so on, so forth...  How you represent yourself carries weight -- it can prevent you from getting hired, it can get you fired.  I am linked to a number of business-related Facebook pages and I am strongly aware that anyone who follows those pages can easily find my personal page so I keep that in mind when I'm updating my cover photo or my profile picture.  I keep that in mind when I write my daily blog and when I accept friend requests.  I understand when and where privacy settings can and should be used -- they're always the first thing I explore when joining a new social medium.  I try to keep it positive and avoid passive-aggessiveness.  If I come across something that I think someone specific will like, I tend to post it directly on his or her page with a note about why it made me think of them instead of posting it on my page and hoping the intended audience checks it out.  It's a nice treat when someone posts on my wall -- it happens so rarely anymore -- so I like to give that tiny thinking-of-you nod to my friends whenever possible.

Facebook should be used for that kind of thing -- to connect with your actual friends and spark a conversation about something newsworthy or creative or celebratory or just plain silly.  It should be used to reconnect with people who you can no longer see in person because of time or distance or the other follies of life.  It's a great way to get quick advice and recommendations from a group of your peers.  One of the greatest things Facebook has done for me is remind me how many people out there remember and support my writing.  Readers, man, I can't love you more!  Every time I consider deactivating my account (which happens pretty regularly), I stop myself almost solely for my writing.  I enjoy sharing what I'm working on with whoever opts to read along -- which is another reason it's almost the only thing I ever post anymore.  

And then, of course, there's Facebook Events.  It's almost the only way you know anyone is playing a show or having a party or doing a thing of any kind -- ahh, look! You're invited.  I always RSVP to every event I am invited to because I know how important it is for the host to know who to expect -- but your yes-no-maybe-so reply is about as meaningless as it can get.  Maybe twenty people say they're coming, but seven people show up -- or maybe seven people say they're coming but twenty show up!  People have become so blissfully casual about simple politeness and etiquette when it comes to such things and I can't help but wonder if it's because so many invitations come by way of Facebook where some users could be inundated on a daily basis with people requesting the honor of their presence at any of a variety of venues.  And while it may not be super necessary to reply to every invitation with total sincerity, it's probably nice to do so when it will make a difference to the host.  I've even noticed that people are more casual about responding to such invitations even when sent via email these days -- is it The Facebook Effect or merely the malaise of a generation?

I often refer to Facebook as a "necessary evil."  It has a job to do, just like any tool we use on a regular basis.  If you're one of those people who don't use it, I don't understand you.  You're like a cash-only bar.  Huh?  What's the point of that?  If you have privacy concerns or issues, be aware of your privacy settings and remember you only have to provide information you want.  You can make yourself unsearchable.  You can control who is on your friend list and what each of those people can see or do on your wall.  If you're one of those "never sharers," you can never share as much as you want.  At least you'll still be able to see those adorable photos of your nieces that your sister is always posting -- at least you'll be in the loop, lurking away to your heart's content.   No one will ever know.  

And regardless of how frequent a poster you are, I am still curious about you -- what makes you want to comment or "like" something?  And on the other side of it, what makes you see something and not say something?  Why do people want to tell me what I've posted and not comment on it on Facebook?  I am endlessly curious and deeply fascinated by this entire virtual social world.  

Because in the immortal words of Marshall Mathers, "I am whatever you say I am.  If I wasn't, then why would you say I am?"  Our personas are shaped by our real lives, of course, but also by the quality of our experience online.  And even that is two-fold -- there's how I represent myself and there's how much you, my "friends," validate what I am saying by interacting with me.  Interactions tell me things -- that you see me, that I'm worth your time; what you "like" tells me what you are willing to admit that you "like" about me -- and I post on Facebook to know that.  And if that sounds crazy to you, ask yourself why you post anything you post.  Maybe there are some people who genuinely post without any hope or expectation that someone will get involved -- but also, I doubt that.  And if you are such a person, explain yourself.  I have so many questions.

And I am looking to have a continued conversation about Facebook and other social media and how you use it and why and when and what you are hoping to get out of it.  How much do you think about it?  How often does it sway your opinion and how do you feel about the power it holds over you or those around you?  What have I said that sounds right and what have I said that sounds opposite of your experience?  The beauty is there is no singular answer.

So go ahead.  Make my day.  Tell me -- what's on your mind?

Shameless Plug

Poems About Strangers

From Out of Nowhere

He's beside me
out of the thinnest of air
saying You've forgotten
your smile.  There -- reminded --
smiling once more.  He walks
in stride with me
as if we'd set off on this journey
together and he says he knows
I'm not from around here
because he can see I'm a free
spirit on hallowed Harvard ground.
He says if I like music than I like poetry
and he recites a verse he says he conjured
just for me in these moments together.
By the end, he's confessed his love
for me until an undying age and asks
if I love him, too.  Part of me does,
but the words are lost in the fading daylight
hours as we continue together
for blocks on end and he tells me
he's been to one hundred and twenty countries
and speaks fifteen fluent languages
but he's never traveled anywhere
with a beauty more exotic than mine.
My Midwestern self throws my head back
in laughter and even though it's surely
a line, I let it hook me, anyway.

Wolfstar Press

Please visit www.wolfstarpress.com for a modern day view of what's up with me.