I joined F*cebook a few months back at the behest of my ol' friend, T.
He lives in L.A., works full time, is getting his master's -and- is somehow doing an additional 20 hours a week of clinical work in support of the degree. Plus he seems to fly to Ireland every other weekend. Month. Whatever.
Regardless, the boy don't sleep much, and as for catching him on the phone - forget about it.
So when he'd sent my third or fourth invite to join his F*cebook Network (or family, or whatever the hell it is) I caved in and joined.
I have now been petted, poked, punched, slapped, tickled and I don't even know what the f*ck else. I've also been characterized, which is basically an unsolicited personality assessment -and- I've been invited to have my blood sucked by a vampire. By a man, as a matter of fact - who is straight, fer crissakes - at least, as far as I know.
(I should point out T was neither the "vampire" nor the initiator of all the aforementioned actions. Just most of them.)
Have you ever gotten an email from an old friend you haven't heard from in a while? You see its from that special someone and open it with anticipation - no one has the time to actually write a letter anymore but a quick note from one of your homeys can be a shining little gem in an otherwise dark day...
And then you open the email to find you are the victim of a mass forward*. No note. Not even a "Dear Ad-man."
*Oh, sure, it could be a really, really funny video. Like the one I just got the other day - "How men's underwear should be advertised" - where this hot chick is wearing men's underwear, only (and this is really going to make you laugh) she's acting like a guy - watching tv, scratching her ass - and then, finally, farting and smelling it!
Hoo boy! There's nothing funnier than a good fart joke, right?
What'll those crazy kids think of next? Jehova's Witnesses emailing themselves to your home?!
Now imagine a place you can go online where you can now find every mass forward ever spawned -and- the people who spawned them - all in the same locale.
Yup, that's what F*cebook is like.
And there are all these geeky little ways of contacting people and of talking about yourself - but they're not called "contacting people" or "talking about yourself" - they're given obscure, supposedly cool sounding little titles and functions, so you don't contact your friends, you poke them, or send them funwall friend requests, or a zombie invitations, or whatever else.
F*cebook is a social utility that connects you with the people around you**Sounds just like a beer at the pub.
Without the beer.
And the pub.
And all those bothersome people.
But, like I said, my buddy, T, is on the F*cebook - with his long hours and his hard-to-get-ahold-of-ness - and it is a way of staying in contact, so I've been hanging in there.
Then, a few days ago, I got a new "friend's request."
It was from my ex-wife.
**M terms it the Dungeons & Dragons of the 21st Century.