A great many of my Facebook friends have covered their profile pics in a rainbow gel. They’re ecstatic about the supreme court’s decision to legalize same sex marriage all across the land. Of course, my Facebook friends are a diverse bunch and others are very upset with the decisions of the POTUS and the SCOTUS. As for me, I’ve got more of a problem with the highest court in the land being referred to by an acronym which is just a few letters away from being a ball bag.
As I drove around running errands the other day, I wondered if the I’d be able to detect any change in the world of suburbia now that any two consenting adults could marry. I didn’t notice much. Rainbows didn’t seem any more prevalent than before. I didn’t come across any outdoor same-sex newlyweds having photos taken of themselves with their wedding parties. Admittedly, it was a Monday, which is fairly rare choice of day for even the most non-traditional of nuptials.
To be honest, I wasn’t too surprised. Suburbia is a substantial step away from the big city, where gay pride parades and loving same-sex couples are more than happy to openly express their joy in being finally legally permitted to marry. I know that there are gay people in every corner of the world, they’re just a little less conspicuous in the land of soccer moms and malls.
Nope, nothing to report except the usual sights; people driving with cell phones plastered to their heads, others driving with their knees while employing both hands to text, still others driving while reading texts, possibly sent by the driver in the next lane. Some cars had unrestrained children romping around in back seat, cute little traumatic brain injuries just waiting to happen. It was tough to see many of these folks because they were swerving around me doing 15 or 20 miles an hour over the speed limit. At the supermarket, someone was parked in a handicapped parking spot but didn’t have the appropriate placard on their car.
It struck me as somewhat ironic that so many people seem to either be terribly upset or wildly overjoyed about what it now officially legal, but so many seem oblivious as to what it means to actually obey the law.
That’s what I get for going on Facebook in the first place. I should have just paid attention to the road and left the computer off.
A few weeks ago, I accepted the friend request from a guy on Facebook. He and I have a few mutual FB friends. His name was vaguely familiar, and I was feeling outgoing in a virtual sort of way.
Perhaps my new friend would post something on FB which would trigger enough synapses in my old wrinkled head to help me recall how I actually knew him (assuming I’d even met this guy in the first place).
Within only a few minutes, I spotted his first post. It was a motivational poster with strong religious overtones. It rang no bells of recognition and no one I knew had commented on it. Before I could waste too much time wondering, another post popped up from him. This one was quite ethnic and not funny to me, though I’m sure someone laughed at it. As I tried to make sense of why someone would post religious cheer-leading, then baby-mama posters within minutes of one another, yet another post popped up from my new friend.
I had published a new blog post. As fate would have it, a few people read it and commented, so I was making sure that I read and replied to as many comments as possible. I also have a job, a wife and a life, so I wasn’t on FB too often. Every time I was though, there were multiple posts from my mystery friend.
I knew I had to block this guy before his dorm-quality WWJD posters and World Star Hip Hop-style homages to booty overwhelmed my news feed. I’d have to sift through mountains of this junk to find the kitten photos and empowerment slogans of the rest of my remaining FB friends.
Before I blocked him, I decided to tally up the posts for the twenty four hours of our friendship. The total: Forty-six photo/slogan/booty-liscious posters and eight religioso posters. None of the posts included photos of the guy, or so much as an original sentence. Fifty-four FB poster posts in the span of one day?! I glanced at his profile page to see what career allows someone the time paste over two of these inane things every single hour of his life.
I won’t be retiring for another 10 years, give or take. I haven’t given a huge amount of thought as to how I’ll spend my golden years. I’m thinking of taking up fly fishing, or maybe opening a combination craft brewery/yoga studio so I can touch my toes before my beer belly gets too big. In the event that I choose to spend my hard earned retirement posting buckets of virtual bumper stickers all over social media sites, I hope one of my actual friends will come over and smother me with a pillow as I sleep.
A friend of mine posted this thing on Facebook. It’s a shining example of one of those passive-aggressive/feel-good/one-upsmanship things that show up there. My interpretation of the message is “Look at me and how selfless and wonderful I am! You can try to show how great you are by re-posting it, but you’ll never be as great as me, because I posted it first. If you don’t re-post it, we can all just accept how horrible a person you must be.” (Your interpretation may vary, it’s a free world). Here it is:
Since it’s posted here and not on my Facebook page, readers are permitted to not feel guilty if they are okay with orphans remaining alone or for sick people staying ill. As a rule, my Facebook page seldom shows much more than my blog links. I try to avoid posting any sort of “happy horse-shit/pray for my cancer riddled Dachshund/what-the-world-needs-now-is-love-sweet-love” types of things. Ironically, since there will be a link to this post, the above message will end up showing up on my Facebook wall, albeit in a roundabout sort of way.
Faithful readers may recall my earlier attempts at creating my own stuff to post on Facebook. In one blog post I came up with several inspirational posters, and in another I developed a yet to be patented decoder ring for FB posts. Sadly none of them have taken off and been re-posted hundreds of thousands of times. The lack of a meteoric rise in success of posters like the one below may be due to a paucity of wit among readers*, a lack of readers in general, or the fact there are no kittens in any of the photos.
(* Not you, Darling, those other readers – you know who I mean!)
Despite my previous failures, the post that my friend passed along like an emotional flu bug has inspired me to try one more time. I’ve developed my own “I Want I Want I Want” poster, which is brutally honest and not designed to make anyone feel crappy for not posting it. That being said, if you don’t post it on your Facebook wall, I’ll mope around the house and wish I’d never gone to all this trouble.
There’s a cool thing all over Facebook. The program asks you a bunch of questions about yourself, and in return tells you which character you’d be in “Game of Thrones”, or “Star Wars”, or “To Catch A Predator.” As if finding out which character you’d be in a make-believe TV show or movie isn’t enough fun, you can also choose to use your initials to find out what your dragon name would be, if you were, you know, a dragon.
Even though I’m almost positive that Facebook is selling my personality quiz answers to the marketing expert with the deepest pockets, I went ahead and took every one of these tests I could find, for the sake of my art (Plus, I didn’t have much else to write about since the polar vortex is pretty well spent as a subject). Here now, in no particular order, are the results:
Which “Star Wars” Character Are You?: You’re competitive and incredibly loyal. Your strong spiritual beliefs guide you through this land and will serve you well in faraway galaxies. You are Ghan-Ghan, R2-D2’s pet electric can opener from “Star Wars XVII – Escape From Popularity”
Which “Star Trek” Character Are You?: You are self-reliant and very independent. Ever an opportunist, you’re always on the look out for an advantage. You put no stock in organized religion or coed team sports. You are Phylleus, warrior of the Wo-Ran dynasty from “Star Trek – When Epics Fail; The Auroras Bore Me, Alice”. Your character can be seen for roughly 23 seconds in the 43rd minute of the movie.
Which “Disney” Character Are You?: You have an insatiable hunger for cheese. Your habit of scurrying along baseboards and wearing four-fingered white gloves does not go unnoticed. Those ears of yours are rather prominent. You are “Flounder” the blue and yellow fish who is any species other than flounder from The Little Mermaid. Click here for special values on great Disney products and promotions reserved for “Flounder” types like you!
Which “Game of Thrones” Character Are You?: Your trait of having never really paid attention to the names of characters is obvious from the answers to the personality test. There is a deep and complex story being told here – Game of Thrones is more than just topless medieval chicks and people beheaded with single swipes of broadswords. Your character is Paal-Gor from the Hidden Valley of Theon. If you want to see who he is, try watching an entire season and paying attention.
Which “The Big Bang Theory” Character Are You?: You are clearly not a genius, and as such you do not qualify to be one of the main characters. In addition, you are not an attractive female, so you cannot be Penny either. You are Zumwalt the kindhearted dishwasher at The Cheesecake Factory where Penny works. Zumwalt has no lines, but he scrubs a mean pot.
Which “Gilligan’s Island” Character Are You?: Your lack of responses to quiz questions 3, 7 and 14 – 22 eliminate you from consideration for any main role. You are Thurston Howell III’s croquet mallet.
What Is Your Dragon Name?: Your dragon name is Fiery Diarrhea. You fly through the barren mountain passes in the mythical land of Haben-Aero.
What Is Your Rap Name?: Your rap name is Scratchy Smooth. Your def lyrics are interspersed with the rhythmic scratching of your chronic eczema.
What Is Your California Prison ID Number?: Your number is 0098329904-K. You are currently incarcerated for insurance fraud. Your cellmate is in for assault, attempted murder and animal cruelty. You have no gang affiliations yet, and shower day is Tuesday. It is recommended that you start fashioning a shiv from an old toothbrush and learn to make wine in a stainless steel toilet.
What Career Should You Actually Have: According to our personality test, you should be the curb man on a trash truck in suburban Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Your ability to jump on and off slow moving vehicles and tolerate foul smells will serve you well. In addition, your embracing the idea of one man’s trash being another man’s treasure may result in an early retirement.
What Animal You Would Be If You Weren’t Already A Human Animal?: You personality test reveals that you would be an indecisive raccoon on the side of a busy interstate. You might not be one for long though. Looks like there’s a break in the traffic right here, you should go…Now!…No! Wait!…No No – Go! Oops.
Which “Sopranos” Character Are You?: The results show that you’re already in Jersey and a little overweight. You are Freddy “Pine Nuts” DiDomenico. You may or may not currently be in the witness relocation program, and we really can’t give any more details than that.
As we learned from my answers in the “Which ‘Welcome Back Kotter’ Character Are You?” quiz, I’m exceedingly generous. In that spirit, if you tell me one or two things about yourself in the comments section, I will tell you which character in my many blogs or in my personal life best matches your unique personality. If you give me no traits, I’ll just randomly assign one to you, and we’ll all have a hearty laugh at your expense.
I click on Facebook more often than I should. I admit to having a burning desire to know what that girl from my 5th-grade Earth Science class is up to now that she’s in her mid-50’s. From what I understand, she’s unhappily divorced and living with her elderly parents and a three-legged cat named Squiggy. For the detail seekers amongst you, Squiggy was diagnosed with a rare feline circulatory disorder just over a year ago. Despite the prayers and smiley-face emoticons sent his way, Squiggy lost the wheel anyway. For his part, he doesn’t appear to miss the leg too much, though it’s hard to tell from the pictures.
That’s the thing with Facebook – you can’t always tell what’s really going on. There are posts and photos galore, but sometimes it’s hard not to imagine that there’s more to the stories. With this in mind, I’m developing something called the Social Network Objective Reinterpretation Tool, or SNORT. When completed, this tool will be able to take a standard Facebook post and reinterpret it to give the reader the poster’s actual message. The results look promising so far, but I’ve still got a few bugs to work out.
Here are a couple of quick SNORT interpretations.
Original Post: “I’m going to miss my son/daughter when I drop them off at college for the first time next week.”
SNORT version: “That’s right bitches, my kid is going to college! You whispered behind my back that he looked “a little slow” at that birthday party back when he was turning 6, even though I had already explained that it was because he was taking allergy medicine. I knew you didn’t believe me.”
Original Post: “Congratulations to my daughter Savannah and the rest of the Pikesville 8-and-under swim team on another great season! Go Pikers!!!”
SNORT version: “Savannah can swim, just not fast enough to get a medal. I hope this post soothes the sore feelings about my forgetting to bring brownies to the Tri-County qualifier meet.”
Original Post: (Inspirational Poster).
SNORT version: “I’m feeling like this quote from some guy I’ve never heard of is right along the lines of how I’m feeling today, but there’s a strong possibility that I posted it because I like pictures of unicorns and rainbows.”
Original Post: “If you’re against child molestation, you’ll repost this.”
SNORT version: “If you were a child molester, posting something like this would be a good way to make people think that you weren’t.”
Original Post: “This is a test…this will determine my future on FB
Don’t often do this but….It occurs to me that for each and every one of you on my friends list, I catch myself looking at your pictures, sharing jokes and news, as well as support during good and bad times….[blah blah blah blah for a ton more words, then ends with the following:]… So, if you read this, leave one word on how we met. Only one word, then copy this to your wall so I can leave a word for you.”
SNORT version: “A clever vehicle constructed to help people with failing memories remember how they ever came to know their “friends” on Facebook in the first place. Sadly, the use of a one word clue for the real-world connection is often insufficient to give the original poster enough information to actually recall meeting the friend. For instance, ‘church‘ is nowhere near as descriptive as ‘we used to go sniff glue together out behind the church’.”
Original Post: “Joe Blow is listening to Nickleback on @Okeydokey Internet Radio – you should too!”
SNORT version: “Joe Blow’s taste in music is nearly as horrific as his taste in TV reality shows. If you join him, all your friends will see what hideous taste you have.”
Original Post: “Joe Blow is watching the “Say Yes to the Dress” marathon on TLC.”
SNORT version: “Joe Blow’s taste in reality TV is even worse than we had originally thought. If you want to watch this crap, it’s your business, but letting everyone on Facebook know about it is just a bad idea.”
Original Post: (Biblical quotes, requests for prayers and/or offerings of blessings)
SNORT version: “I may not attend services with any regularity or behave in a very pious manner, but I’m hoping Jesus is on Facebook. If he is, I’ll try to friend Him .”
Original Post: “Hey everybody, click this link to see my latest blog post.”
SNORT version: “Thanks to this blog, I can tell people that I’m a struggling writer and not a middle-aged loser.”
Obviously interpretations like that last one are examples of the kinks in the program which still need to be ironed out. I’m thinking once I get this working well, I can create an app with it and sell millions of them. Once I’m rolling in the bucks, I’ll quit my dead-end job and maybe get myself a Trans-Am and some hair-plugs.
I admit that I spend too much time on this blog making fun of people on Facebook. Obviously, I’m on FB myself, or I wouldn’t be privy to the treasure trove of idiocy which shows up magically every few minutes. I might not feel feel like taking the time to maintain traditional relationships with most of the “friends” I have there, but I’m okay with spending the handful of minutes it takes to feel superior to many of them.
If there isn’t sufficient fodder for my cynicism in the main section of the page, my eyes wander to the upper right corner where some friend or acquaintance will have just “liked” someone else’s photo or status. No matter what time it is or what day of the week, another one of my friends will post a status which is at once noble and yet indescribably trivial. I refer of course, to the following Facebook status gem:
“Joe Blow gave Life in Candy Crush Saga.”
(For those of you who think I have an actual Facebook friend named Joe Blow, please return to almost any of my previous blog posts and consider that I might be making that name up. For those of you who might actually be named Joe Blow, my apologies, but I’m pretty sure you’re used to being the brunt of jokes by this point in your lives – feel free to hate your parents for their lack of both creativity and foresight.)
We just celebrated Mother’s Day. Memorials and salutations dominated the landscape of Facebook as old photos of mothers and grandmothers graced the digital pages. People who despised their mothers when I knew them back in Mrs. Benedict’s Social Studies class now took great pains to try to make it up to them by posting dog-eared photos of dear old Mummsy. They proclaimed their mothers were the best mothers ever. Their own children may have even proclaimed them to be the best mothers ever, thus creating an umcomfortable tableau for the medals ceremony. Contrary to everyone’s claims, my mother is actually the best. No wait…I’m changing my vote to my wife, she’s the best…no, I mean my daughter…no…no, I’m going to stick with my wife as the world’s greatest mother of all time. Irrespective of whose Mom is the best, they all have one thing in common: They gave life.
I ache to know if giving life in Candy Crush Saga is similar to doing so in a delivery room or in the backseat of a cab on the shoulder of the Cross Bronx Expressway. As a man, I’m already relegated to the sidelines of the birthing process as it is. Despite my desire to know, I can’t bring myself to actually go play CCS . I live in fear of what people will think of me if my status says that I’ve given life in there. My bosses will instantly know that I have entirely too much time on my hands. My wife (Best mother – ever!) will realize that I did in fact have time to pick up dog dookie from the yard, but chose instead to dawdle on the computer. My kids will know that at least I’m not looking at fetish porn. The icing on my cake of shame will be that my friends from 7th grade will know that I’m every bit as pathetic as they are.
I know it’s just another addictive app on Facebook, taking its rightful place in the Pantheon of Time Wasters, among such legends as Farmville and Mafia Wars. Though I’ve never played CCS, I’m going to go out on a limb an guess that it has something to do with crushing candy. I imagine there are different degrees of squashing sweets. Certainly it’s one thing to step on a lint-covered Wint-O-Green Lifesaver, and entirely different to drop a freight car full of Necco Wafers off a bridge.
Regardless of what the game actually entails, I take exception with the app creator’s choice of names. It takes balls to name any game a saga, let alone one which revolves around smashing Root Beer Barrels and Atomic Fireballs. It may be fun, and you may waste years of your life playing it, but that doesn’t qualify it as a saga.
The word “saga” can apply to nearly any batch of books written by James Michener. These thick-as-a-brick tomes often span multiple generations and pivotal eras in history. They may also include some heavy mythical stuff, like “Beowulf”. If a film is made, it should feature saga-friendly actors like Tom Selleck and Richard Chamberlain. Sagas still in book form can be found holding up the one corner of the coffee table where the leg was broken off during your parents’ lone attempt at a get-away weekend back in your teenage years. In a bizarre twist, that ill-fated get-away weekend was to celebrate Mothers Day.
Paralyzed by the fear of looking ridiculous and already over-booked in more meaningful free-time pursuits, I guess I’ll never know the joy and satisfaction of giving life in Candy Crush Saga. True to most trends, CCS will eventually run its course and be replaced by some other time-sucking app with a goofy name. In just a few short years, people’s status update will show the latest news:
“Joe Blow just gave flames to his candles and Iced Layer 147 on his Cake of Shame”
I could write for days about the strange things which pop up on Facebook. It’s something of a blight on our society, but I can’t help looking, like it’s a mangled wreck on the side of the highway, because it kind of is.
Today’s Facebook oddity is the math problem phenomenon. Very few people enjoyed math all that much back when we were sitting in junior high, staring out the window, or in my case, drawing three-D boxes on my spiralbound notebook. Suddenly, decades later, people are putting tricky math problems on Facebook statuses with messages which say things like: “50% of people get this wrong“. The problems do not require a pencil and paper, much less a calculator. I’m sure that thousands of people feel obligated to type in their answers to prove that even though they barely eeked out a “C” in 7th grade math, they’ve brightened up considerably since.
Today’s math stumper, posted by a Facebook friend of mine, is seen above. Let’s work this one out together as a class, shall we? Before we get started, let’s review the order of operations as it relates to this problem. Multiplication and division outrank addition and subtraction, and so they get done first. If both multiplication and division are in the same equation, then we start from the left and work our way over. Sound familiar? I know, it’s been a while. Just remember everyone, answering wrong is not a crime, but all of your Facebook friends will see what an idiot you are.
Now then, let’s begin with the first multiplication problem: One times zero equals…anyone…? Mr. Einstein, you had your hand up first. Right you are Albert, anything times zero is going to equal zero!
Next, we move onto the division; what is two divided by two? Miss Kardashian? Hello? Kim?! Glad you could pull yourself from the revery of whatever you’re staring out the window at to give us the answer. Miss Kardashian, I don’t care whether Kanye has his tongue stuck to the flagpole or not, what I care about is you telling the class what we get when we divide two by two.
I can see from the blank look on your face that you’re not getting this. Let me put it into different terms for you: If the network has given you TWO reality shows, how many groups of TWO reality shows will you have? No, I didn’t realize you actually have five of them dear, but I was speaking hypothetically. No Kim, “hypothetically” has nothing to do with needles. Tell you what, go back to the window and see if the fire trucks are here for Kanye yet.
Okay…Now to put it all together…Six minus zero is six, and two divided by two equals one. So…six plus one equals..Anyone? People, please – we covered this years ago – it’s basic stuff…you KNOW this! Six and one is…? Albert, let someone else answer, please!
(I’m pacing the front of the room, anxiously rolling the piece of chalk between my thumb and index finger, looking from face to face as you guys nervously avert your eyes. Albert is there in the front row, looking a little pissed-off with his hands folded in front of him – he’s having another horrific hair day. Kim has stopped looking out the window and is texting someone from a phone that has more diamonds on it than the entire contents of my wife’s jewelry box. I’m wondering whether tenure will even exist by the time I qualify for it. I’m struggling to resist the urge to whip the blackboard eraser at one of you when the bell rings)
Maybe I was wrong to think of those math problems as being so easy. Maybe half of all responders really DO get these wrong.
What’s that Kim? No, actually, I was right, “half” and “50%” are actually the same amount. It’s nice to know that you were listening, kind of. Kim, shouldn’t you be heading to English class this period? I heard today’s lecture is about Moby Dick. No Kim…I’m fairly confident it’s about a whale.
At one point in my efforts to build a larger blog following, I heard that having a presence on Twitter is critical. I set myself up there, but I still don’t think I’m using it properly. It’s as if I’m squatting in the brush, swinging an electron microscope to smash my way into a termite mound.
As a case in point, I still haven’t quite grasped the whole “hash-tag” thing. On Twitter and other social media sites, it seems to be the preferred way of maximizing a message’s relevance to a given topic – but more often than not, it just seems to be really overused. For those of you who are even more clueless than I, the “hash-tag” apparently involves putting a pound sign in front of a bunch of topical words – and by “topical” I mean “random“. How or when some unknown entity decided to change the pound sign into a hash-tag is a mystery to me. Lord only knows what people are supposed to use for a pound sign now.
A friend recently posted the following on her Facebook page: Newwwww hair #ombre #hairr #ahhhhh #ihave2getusedtoit #craycray #stylishh #mommydontlike #too2badd #mee #webstagram. I had to cut and paste it so I’d get it exactly right – I was worried I might mispell “Newwwww”. Thanks to a couple of anthropology courses in college, I was able to deduce that this message was either about her new hairstyle or a desperate cry for rescue from the voices in her head.
I went to Twitter to investigate, and found all the posts with the hash-tag “mommydontlike”. Some D-list celebrity had written something moderately witty and 117 people had re-Tweeted it. Otherwise, there wasn’t much to see.
The next logical place to look was Webstagram, but I mistakenly typed in “Instagram”. I believe Instagram has something to do with doctoring pictures from your cell phone to make them look artsy. It bills itself as “A fast, beautiful and fun way to share your photos with friends and family”. I’m sure that the folks at Instagram are accurate in their description, but I don’t know if I’m ready for it.
I found that Webstagram is a site which bills itself as a “the best Instagram web viewer”. Instagram already advertises that you can share your photos to Facebook, Tumblr and Twitter, but Webstagram implies that their site is an even better place to show ones photos. I’m not sure if Webstagram is any better for Instagram pictures, but one thing is for sure; it’s another place to display your pictures. When I typed in one or two of the hash-tags on Webstagram, I found my friend’s photo. I knew it was hers because I had already seen the pic when she posted it with the original hash-tag fest on Facebook. It was only the one photo, and it really didn’t show her new(newwwww) hairstyle, but that’s just #myyy#biggphat#opinion. For those of you keeping track at home, that makes the score – Photos: 1 Hash-Tags: 13
After my first proofread of this mess, I realized that posting it with my friend’s original hash-tags might result in my many followers getting a good look at this girl’s hairstyle, and she might not want anyone to see her photo except everyone else in cyber space. I took the liberty of doctoring some of the hash-tags so that only the most persistant of stalkers could figure it out.
After all this screwing around, I still haven’t figured out what the hell hash-tags can do for me.
I’ve tweeted a fair amount, and some of my Tweets were pretty darn clever, which is tough for me to do in 140 characters. In addition, every time I post a blog, there’s an automatic link which shows up as a Tweet by me. I’m not really sure if those Tweets have resulted in a single hit on the blog. Let’s face it, the vast majority of Twitter subscribers are running low on attention spans by the time they reach around the 73-character mark. It’s an awful lot to expect them to click on the link and read one of my 1000 word treatises on constipation.
I decided to take the bull by the horns and post my own hash-tagged topic and see if anyone took the bait. On Easter Sunday, I created a holiday-related hash-tag with my own quip following it. I know none of you saw it, so here it is: #asparagusscentedpee one of Easter’s less celebrated traditions.To date, no one has hopped on board. Now that Easter is sooo last week, my snazzy hash-tag may as well have been carved onto a stone tablet and buried in the yard.
I estimate that my Twitter presence will continue to be a non-factor until I’m at least as famous as a D-list celebrity. Till then, I’m just going to try to work at keeping my posts under 1000 words and hang onto my day job.
I just saw yet another annoying attempt at a memorial poster on Facebook. It was supposedly created by a guy who is known there as johnconnor1964. This particular poster was of a single set of footprints in the sand. Written over the photo were the following words:
“What I would give to hold your hand,
To leave our footprints in the sand,
Never thought the day would come,
Instead of two prints theirs only one”
It was posted on the Facebook page of a friend who often laments how deeply she misses loved ones who’ve passed away. Apparently her own words were insufficient to express her sadness, so she let Mr. Connor’s little memorial poster do the talking for her. Someday, when I’m not emotionally drained by the tragedy of my March Madness pool nose-diving into the toilet, I’ll write in greater detail about Facebook as a place for memorials.
I don’t mean to come across as an elitist, or to trivialize the sorrow of my Facebook buddy, but Mr. Connor’s literary effort can best be described as a shining example of “crapsmanship”. The thought behind the poem is sweet enough, but the forced composition and misuse of “theirs” instead of “there’s” just destroys what little hope this gem had to begin with. His intent was to bring to mind the emptiness of missing a lost loved one. Instead of fond memories of Uncle Phil, Connor’s poem reminds me of an old standard which used to be found with some regularity on the partitions of pay toilets.
“Here I sit,
Paid my dime,
And only farted”
To be fair, the pay toilet poem is a clever bit of potty humor and John Connor’s creation never really stood a chance in a comparison with such a classic. Also, in the spirit of full disclosure, the dime was replaced with a quarter in later years to reflect the increased costs of dropping a deuce. Literary historians agree that the extra syllable of the updated version took away from the playful rhythm and energy of the original.
Many people think that quality workmanship should only apply to things like custom cabinetry and Italian loafers. This is simply not the case. If I learned nothing else in Mr. Barton’s 7th grade woodshop class, it was the value of doing a job well. Whether you’re building a napkin holder or writing a four line poem, you should strive to rise above mediocrity. Mr. Barton would tell anyone who’d listen that the excuse behind crapsmanship is a simple one – for some people, it’s just too much work to do a job well. Then he’d go on to tell you why excuses are like rear-ends, but we’ll save that pearl of wisdom for another post.
As if crapsmanship in the realm of the written word isn’t bad enough, the damage is compounded when others actually embrace it. People accept a lack of quality, and proudly display it on their Facebook pages like commemorative plates with depictions of Elvis and the twelve disciples enjoying fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches at the last supper. You don’t have to be a biblical scholar to know that Elvis served hush puppies and barbituates at that particular dinner party.
Crapsmanship is slowly becoming the norm. People don’t see a problem with the wall paint smearing up onto the white of the ceiling. If a table is wobbly, a few sugar packets or a pack of matches will steady it; there’s no need to demand four legs of equal length or a level floor to put it on. You’re talking Applebee’s on a Friday happy hour – you should be thrilled to have any table! With crapsmanship the accepted norm, caring about whether or not a sentence contains erroneous homonyms might seem a tad fussy.
Even I will admit that writing a poem with grammatical mistakes isn’t a cardinal sin. Putting that hokey poem over a photo of footprints in the sand may be incredibly trite from a design standpoint, but it’s not going to get you jail time. John Connor put what is presumably his name on this poster. Perhaps he doesn’t care what the grammar police will say. There’s an outside chance that he is actually the John Connor of “The Terminator” fame and realizes that once cyborgs take over, spelling and syntax will lose what little value they still possess.
Perhaps the people who use Connor’s poster to express their feelings are so overwhelmed with melancholy that they don’t even realize that it’s riddled with butchered English. Maybe I’m reading too much into this. Still, I can’t help but think that settling for such a vintage example of crapsmanship will cost users a degree of perceived sincerity of their original sentiment.
I realize that the status of ones Facebook page is transient at best. For chronic status-posters like my friend, there will always be a new update to replace the last one. Facebook statuses are as impermanent as the footprints in the shmaltzy photo on the poster. Regardless of the fleeting nature of Facebook memorial posts, your late Aunt Sophie or Sparky the deceased labradoodle may be watching from the other side. They may not care any more about grammar than you do (especially Sparky, who always cared more about dragging his butt across the Berber than he ever did about English composition).
I just want to go on the record now; I give a hoot about the proper use of the English language to lament the passing of a loved one. If any of you think I’m going to just lie there a-moldering in the grave while you post poorly composed, typo-ridden poems about me, you’ve got another thing coming. I’ll bring a red pen back from the grave and haunt your ass.
A man of my years should be flattered. I mean really – the young woman is very attractive. She’s got a great smile, an impressive physique, and a devilish look in her eye. She gazed at me from the border and made saucy suggestions about how I might spend my time with her.
She seductively stared at me from the right hand margin of my Facebook page and tried to catch my eye – as if her curvaceous form and sassy attitude didn’t already trump yet another pet memorial from one of my junior high social-studies classmates.
“Watch this crazy linguistics video!” she purred. I may be a little long in the tooth, but I know a come-on when I see one. Kids today and their zany euphemisms! I almost had to blush at the thought of what “linguistics” must mean. I’m not sure if this girl is a centerfold, a zumba instructor or both, but if she was into “linguistics” then more power to her!
“If you don’t know French and are age 50+ you’ll want to see this video immediately” she cooed to me.
She’s going to teach me “French”? There’s a video?! I can’t believe they’d let such a flagrant seductress on Facebook! I must admit that the idea of a girl who’s this interested in men twice her age is a little off-putting. After brief consideration, I supposed she preferred her playmates to be in bifocals. Maybe she’d tired of the guys of her own generation who spent all their time at the gym and playing video games. Those young pups are too busy trying to kill zombies and aliens to invest the time needed to learn how to take a relationship with a beautiful young woman to the next level using “French” and “linguistics”.
Being a crafty old coot, I knew better than to jump too soon. I let her think I wasn’t all that interested. Perhaps she’d think that I already knew French. Patience is one of the most critical things I’ve learned over these past couple of decades – that and the importance of getting enough fiber in my diet.
Before I could make my move, she’d disappeared and was replaced by a real estate ad for a 2 bedroom condo in the Village. Who would be crazy enough to think that I’d be in the market for a condo in the Village? People who are 50+ and don’t speak French are woefully out of place in a locale as trendy as that. Do some research, advertising people!
When the Greenwich Village condo ad was replaced by one for a South Jersey Subaru dealer, I was worried that my playing hard-to-get had left the raven-haired vixen feeling rejected. The poor thing had put herself out there so brazenly, and I had ignored her. I was such a mean, sexy old grouch. By now, she’d likely given up explaining the three families of French verbs to the wrinkled masses and was drowning her sorrows doing keg-stands with the Grand Theft Auto players from down the hall.
Just as suddenly as she had vanished, she reappeared in my Facebook border. I was overjoyed to see her. I tried to play it cool, though. I knew fawning all over her ad would be the wrong move. While only casting discrete glances in her direction, I felt like there was something different. Was it her smile? Had she lost a bit of the free-spirit in her eyes? Her cup size and sexually-defiant posture certainly seemed unchanged. Then I saw it! She was looking to teach Italian to the over 60 set!
I’d had my chance, and I’d blown it. She’d moved on to guys who were even older than me. I can pass for 49 1/2 in the right light, but only a hottie with a severe astigmatism would think I was in my 60’s. It was over between us before it had ever really started. The bitter taste of rejection must have pushed this sweet young linguist over the edge. She’d abandoned her desire to teach French to younger-old guys like me. She lowered the bar to working on Italian with gents who had Geritol on their breath and a water glasses full of dentures soaking on the nightstand.
It’s all just as well I suppose. Married men of my age have no business learning foreign languages from swimsuit models. Still, I had let my mind go down that path and now my humdrum life seems to ache for a new direction. I’m thinking that maybe I should reconsider a place in the Village. If my wife says no, then I’ll have to settle for a Subaru.