Timeline

I get it now.

I get it.

Facebook wants you.

It wants you so, so bad.

Zuckerberg is lying on his bed of money, rubbing money all over his money-- he's rolling around, flicking his taint (whoa-- money!) and he's just dreaming about... well...

Y.O.U.

He wants you, and your youness.

Facebook is his baby and his daddy and his bitch, and now he wants you to be his daddy and his baby and his bitch.

Oh, dirty little baby bitch.

ZUCKERBERG WANTS ALL THE BABY BITCHES!!!!

No, seriously.  He does.

At first, I didn't get it.  I didn't understand what it was all about.  I mean, Facebook changes interfaces as frequently as I change pants.  That is to say, about twice a week.  Gross, I know, but who has the time to take the belt off and take the wallet out and the Burt's Bees and put it all on another pair of pants every day?  I mean, come on-- it's not like I'm shitting in them.

So, right-- Timeline.  I didn't understand what the big deal was.  Until today.  I happened to look at my Timeline-- well, my Timeline preview, because I'm way too antidisestablishmentarianwhateverthecum to change it over myself, so I'm just going to wait until they MAKE ME DO IT.

(They're making me do it.  It's like rape.  Zuckerberg's raping me with his money cock.)

So, I scrolled all the way down to my birthday-- May 12, 1980-- where my Timeline begins.  And there's nothing there because, well, obvs-- Facebook didn't exist in 1980.  And then it hit me.

My kids.

My kids were born on December 15, 2011.  FACEBOOK EXISTED WHEN MY KIDS WERE BORN.  My wife and I (because we're STUPID NARCISSISTS) put up pictures from the hospital bed, pictures of our children in their little incubator pod weird thing.  The first picture ever taken of them, something that should be private, to our family, got a hundred fucking thumbs ups-- many of them from people who haven't spoken to me out loud since middle school-- and I guarantee you the last thing they said to me probably wasn't nice.

People who are born to adults of the Facebook generation are going to have their whole lives on Facebook.  From the first minute.  Their first spit up, their first shitty diaper, their first breastfeed, their first roll over, the first time they bring their goddamned little grubby hands to midline.  We're constantly clicking away at our babies' lives, as Emily Webb says, "every, every minute".  And it's all there, on Facebook.

Timeline is gonna MOTHERFUCKING OWN US.

When my kids become fourteen, (apparently, that's the age you need to be to get a Facebook account) they're going to get access to all the pictures of them, from the very first one at the hospital, and they're going to put them all up on their Timeline and every moment of their live will be chronicled, cataloged, categorized.

And... I don't exactly know what that means.  I'm not smart enough to know what that means.  I'm not paranoid enough to know what that means.  I don't know if it's the end of something, or the beginning of something.  Is it the end of privacy, or is it the beginning of oneness?

All I know is this-- Facebook doesn't need to see my Middle School Years, and I don't think it needs to see anybody's Middle School Years.  What does it want with every moment of our lives?  Does Facebook want to fuck us or own us or drop us or eat us or what?  It's beginning to seem like a Maurice Sendak character, only without the charm.

Timeline: you need to be stopped, and I think I'm just the man to do it.  I'm after you, Zuckerberg.  Just as soon as I change my status.

Andy Rooney Angry

My wife is over there at the sewing table leafing through a catalog of kid toys. There's a two page spread of fire truck/construction vehicle toys and there's boys playing with said toys. On the next page, there's a two page spread of fairy wings and kitchen sets, and there's girls playing with said toys.

Surprised? I'm not. Indignant? Not me.

I don't know what has come over me lately, but I don't care-- about a startlingly high number of things that, maybe, one day, would have got me outraged enough to... um.... I don't know. Write a blog post?

I used to be what might be called an A.Y.M. (Angry Young Man). I got really hot and pissy at the drop of a hat, and I'd write A.A.L.'s (Angry Ass Letters). I'd sit at the computer and pound out a fire-breathing letter to a company, an organization, an editor. My letters were often answered, or published-- I guess my words aren't so easy to toss in a bin or insert in a shredder, and maybe I take some amount of comfort or pride in that. I like my words. My words with friends.

These days, it takes a lot to get me A.R.A. (Andy Rooney Angry). Maybe I'm more mature, maybe I'm more depressed, maybe I'm more consumed and more draggin' the wagon. More... tired. Maybe I've realized that getting angry only raises my pulse and my blood pressure. Generally speaking, my anger does very little for and to other people, it hasn't created much social change or more world order.

My anger got a plaque replaced on the Ben Franklin Boulevard-- but that was years ago. In 1970, a police sergeant named Frank Von Colln was talking on the phone at a small guard house when someone burst through the door and shot and killed him. Von Colln's holster was empty-- his revolver cold and useless inside his desk drawer.

Years later, a small park on the Ben Franklin was dedicated to him, and a wooden plaque was erected proclaiming that this small patch of ground with a ball field was to be known as Von Colln Memorial Park. But the years hadn't been kind and it had fallen into disrepair, it was falling apart. Maybe it had been vandalized, or just weathered-- I don't know. Still, the end result was the same: the sign looked like shit, and wasn't exactly a fitting tribute to the man whose name was etched into the wood.

So, I wrote a letter-- I think it was to the director of the Philly parks & rec department. I tore him a new asshole, ripped into him for allowing such a sacrosanct thing to go to hell, though I'm sure even this guy had never even heard of Von Colln Memorial Park. For good measure, I searched through newspaper archives and found a photograph of Von Colln, lying on the floor by his desk, riddled with bullet holes, the telephone receiver beside his body, and I paper-clipped the picture to my letter. A little gratuitous-- maybe. Three weeks later, I received a letter of apology (Apology? To me? Who the hell was I?) and a couple months later, there was a new, beautiful sign up. Money well spent.

Years earlier, while I was still in college and had just published a book honoring fallen police officers, I was on the phone with the daughter of slain NYC Patrolman Waverly Jones. Jones and his partner, Joseph Piagentini were killed on May 21, 1971 as they walked back to their patrol car together after answering an unfounded call at a housing complex in Harlem. Jones, black, was shot from behind four times and killed instantly. His white partner was mercilessly tortured as he lived through being shot thirteen times. He died on the way to the hospital. Jones's daughter, now a grown woman, told me that there were two trees planted outside the 32nd Precinct to honor her father and his partner, and that her father's tree and plaque had fallen into disrepair, while Piagentini's was clean and beautiful.

So, I picked up the phone and called the Precinct commander. Miraculously, the desk sergeant transferred the call and the commander picked up. I told him who I'd just spoken to and what she'd said, and I shared how disappointed she and I were in the department-- adding that the inequality with which the memorials to these two men were being treated smacked of the very racism that a black-and-white patrol partnership in Harlem in the 1970s was trying to betray. I said that the "New York Daily News" would probably be very interested in covering that angle of the story, should they happen to hear about it from someone.

A few months later, I was invited to a re-dedication of the trees and plaques. Both patrolmen's families were invited, there would be pipers, and a Catholic police chaplain would be there to bless the trees and the plaques, I was told. I declined the invitation, probably because I was still Andy Rooney Angry.

Looking back on who I was, I miss being angry, because it got things done. It strikes me that this post might strike you as self-congratulatory but, it's not-- it's just a bit of story-telling of a bygone era in my life, when I was different-- wound up and pissed off. Nowadays, it seems like everyone's getting angry-- it's suddenly fashionable when, ten years ago, I felt like I was doing that dance by myself. With Facebook, though, people get angry and they make a status update, they post a link to a polarizing article, they sign an online petition by clicking a box, they say something snarky about a Republican candidate in a sweater vest. If they're REALLY angry, they'll change their Profile Picture.

And I get it-- we don't have time to get all panty-twisted about every injustice in the world. Brad Pitt can't build affordable housing everywhere. If we spent all our time activisting, who'd wash the dishes and feed the marmoset? But maybe we can do more, if we really care. And, if we don't really care, why pretend? Because we want to look good for our "friends"? Maybe we should wait until we're Andy Rooney Angry, or risk looking disingenuous, or H.C.P. (Holden Caulfield Phony).

Sometimes I wish I was still an Angry Young Man. But usually I don't. It's just too damn hard.

Well, It's Finally Happened...

... I want to un-friend just about everybody I'm friends with on Facebook.

Pretty much all 343 of them. They're annoying. Attention-seeking. Clever. Phony. Obnoxious. Self-aggrandizing. Vacuous. Disingenuous.

Come to think of it, make it 344, because I kind of want to un-friend myself.

Note: I didn't say I want to delete my Facebook account. I just kind of what to un-friend everybody.

I'm not going to, though, because that takes energy and motivation. It's purposeful and there are steps involved that one must take, and repercussions, possibly. And I'm not into repercussions. Or step-taking, for that matter. I'm not really into much of anything, frankly. Too many thoughts of diapers and strollers and vomit and shit that looks like watered-down peanut butter.

I'm feeling crabby, I think. I'm in a But-I-Don't-Wanna mood. You ever get like that?

I don't wanna take pictures of the twins and Blackberry them up onto Facebook from the delivery room so people I went to middle school can "Like" them. I don't want thirty-seven "Likes" for the fact that my wife just squeezed out our children. I don't want to read, "Awwww! So cute!" ten times and see all those fucking thumbs-ups.

I don't want it.

It's so cheap. So cloying. So clickably satisfying.

I know, I'm being an asshole. I can't help it. It's how I feel, right now. Maybe I won't feel this way on Sunday, or Thursday. But it's how I feel right now. And, like I said, I don't want to cancel my account, mostly because all my goddamned pictures are up there-- I just kind of want to have a Facebook account, because basically everyone else does, but I kind of want to have one in a vacuum, just sort of by myself. I want to put stuff up there and say witty or crabby things, but I don't necessarily want to hear anything from anyone else. It would be the equivalent, I guess, of the cork bulletin board we keep upstairs in our office. There's a bunch of random crap on it-- pictures and cards and quotes and whatnot, but people don't say anything about it, because nobody else comes up into our office.

Nobody "Likes" the picture of my wife, my sister-in-law, and I standing in the market in our hipster formalwear, each of us clutching a squash like a baby, though, I expect that, if I scanned said picture and put it up on Facebook, that would earn at least 6 Likes and a "LOL!" for good measure.

I was scrolling through Ye Olde Walle yesterday and I was getting so... blargh. I don't even know what I was getting-- enervated? Irritated? Exasperated? I suppose Facebook and all the self-glorifying inanity thereon reaches a point of saturation after a while. There comes a point where you just can't look at Facebook anymore without wanting to give yourself a tonsillectomy with a broken paperclip.

I just wanted to make it all go away. And you can Log Out, but it never really goes away, unless you make it go away. For real. And then you become the antidisestablishmentarianistic hermit-like bowl of ass-sweat that everybody thought you were in college.

And I don't know if I'm really that.

Maybe, though. Maybe.

C Minus

My wife went away to Providence to visit her family this weekend, and I walked through our house as one who wanders vacantly and purposeless.

That's not completely true -- it's partially true -- and, besides, it sounded poetic as fuck.

I was, I'll admit, a little lost. Not lost in the way that you'd expect a traditional, stereotypical American husband to be "lost" without his wife, in that I didn't shrink all the laundry, I didn't blow up the microwave, and I didn't forget to shower, eat, or go to work. Yeah-- this was my weekend to work, and I think that's probably for the best. Had she gone away and left me alone with no scheduled activities or responsibilities, I might have fallen apart. But we'll never know.

Fortunately.

I don't know about you, but I engage in rather a lot of self-critique -- of my writing, of my habits, of the random shit I say to people throughout the day, of my so-called "performance." I guess it's natural for a recovering theatre-major to evaluate his/her performance. And it's not so much, "Was that thing I said to that person at 2:35pm funny, or was it misconstrued?" (although I definitely do that kind of micro bullshit analysis, too) but it's much more of a self check-in -- like, "How'd I do today?"

Was I effective as an employee and a coworker?

Was I a good husband, son, brother, friend today?

Did I utilize my time in a manner that brings shame and embarrassment to me, or was my time utilized efficiently, appropriately, and rationally?

Really-- I'm not German. I swear.

On a grading scale, using the Bell Curve and points for extra-credit, I'd give myself the Weekend Without my Wife grade of C-.

First of all, I broke Passover -- on Friday night. It felt salacious and inappropriate and almost like an act of infidelity. And, what's even worse: I broke Passover at my parents' house. When I walked into the dining room, there was matzah on the table. I was relieved. Then they brought out toasted bread.

"But..." I mumbled. Then, the main course came out.

Shrimp. And pasta.

Then there were Snickerdoodle cookies for dessert. It was the unholiest, unkosherist, fuck God up his asshole till it bleeds bloody yeast dinner.

Ever.

And I ate it lustily, and even had leftover shrimpies for lunch the next day.

So that... wasn't good.

I was very good at the working part of the weekend. I did my usual thing, was very effective and compassionate and funny and it was a successful weekend at work -- so that bumped my score up significantly.

Then, the night came. As Mark Twain once wrote, we are "never quite sane in the night." Well, that's me. Without my buddy here, without the activities in which we engage when the sun goes down (oh, shut up, you pervy child), I was most definitely lost. Saturday night was an utter befuddlement. It was as if my face was attached to the computer monitor. I blogged. I watched porn. I flitted time away on Facebook. I ate dinner at the computer, which struck me as incredibly pathetic, even though it was normalized behavior back in college.

Then, I tried to watch "The Wire," which I had never seen before. I made that my status on FB and was inundated with inane comments from people I haven't heard from in ten years, leading me to come to the conclusion that I ought never to mention anything popular on Facebook ever again. Three minutes into Episode 2, Season 1, the DVD crapped out. Twice. Utterly frustrated, I stared at the floor for twenty minutes before deciding to fold the two bag's worth of laundry that I'd done earlier in the evening.

Oh, and I vacuumed, too.

In John Irving's "The Cider House Rules," the character Candy says that she is "just no good at being alone." I suppose I'm not either. Not quite co-dependent-- just not so good at being alone. I get out-of-order, unfamiliar, unpleasant. I also get ashamed. Why wasn't I picking up the phone calling people I know and haven't seen for a while to get together? Was I afraid they'd brush me off?

Was I afraid they wouldn't?

I actually did search for concerts or plays to go to Saturday night -- but nothing piqued my interest. I feel like I actually would have gone to hear a singer-songwriter or see a show by myself, but I can't imagine I would have enjoyed it very much. Besides, who would I have made fun of people with on the way home?

So, all things considered, I gave myself a C-. I've done worse, of course, and I'm not particularly ashamed of that grade, to be honest. In many ways, I think I kind of expected it. Fortunately, my buddy's back. And I feel some grade inflation coming on.

(Perv.)

Hi. I "Like" You.

Disclaimer: If you don't especially enjoy lists, then this post probably isn't going to be on your list of things to do today.

I resisted Facebook for a long time and, even after I ceased resistance, I resisted doing things on it, like updating my status and uploading pictures. Finally, I realized that I was resisting just to be contrary, to be different than "the masses," to eschew what is popular-- kind of like why I still haven't seen "Titanic," why I don't read "Hyperbole and a Half," and why I often pee sitting down.

Of course, posting shit on Facebook is fun. I can't deny the funny little tickle I get when Adam K. "Likes" one of my statuses (or, um, most of them) or when someone makes a clever comment about an ancient photograph scanned and posted by one of my elementary school cohorts (I'll get you for that, Lauren G., or whatever the hell your married last name initial is now-- are you really a mother? Gah!) What can I say? Facebook is the new Heaven and Zukerberg is on everybody's crucifix of fun.

Happy. Times. Bitchcakes.

I was on Le Livre de Visage recently and I was struck by the number and diversity of things that people "Like." For instance, on my wall, I learned today that two people (I don't know who they are) "Like" a photograph of a stuffed Gonzo climbing a Christmas tree, presumably ascending to take the place of the star of Bethlehem. Two people, one of them an old classmate of mine, like someone's status that informs the world that, "Amoxicillin smells just like it did 25 years ago." 3 people also like chocolate Teddy Graham Cracker crust, or, at least, they "Like" it, or, at least, they "Like" the mere mention of it.

As part of the work I do to advocate support for the families of fallen police officers, I also get Facebook updates from The Officer Down Memorial Page. They just sent me notice that a motorcycle officer in Texas died from injuries sustained while escorting, ironically, a funeral procession. The update was sent out six minutes ago, and already 15 people "Like" it, which sounds absolutely awful, but I know that's not what they mean.

On my own profile page, Facebook has alerted me to the fact that at least one of my "Friends" "Likes" Bacardi, which is nice for "Her." Four of my "Friends" also "Like" something called "Small Business Saturday," which, I suppose, encourages you to shop at small businesses. On Saturday, of course. I guess they can't be Orthodox Jewish businesses.

Shucks.

(That word looks funny. I "Like" it.)

And, speaking of which, I thought I'd present you, gentle reader and undoubted Facebookaholic, a list of things that I "Like."

* Sodium

Seriously. Can't get enough of the shit. I mean, I like sweet things, and chocolatey things, but give me some sausages, bacon, ham (yeah, all on the same plate-- it's fine) homefries, cheeseeggs and I will "Like" the motherfuckin' nitrates out of that. I also like processed soups. And soups that aren't processed, but I don't eat nearly enough of those.

* Ass-Warmers

I know I talk about owning a used Volvo a lot, but, what can I say, I only got it in April, so the novelty's still there. With an unusually chilly November behind us and an equally frigid December kicking our asses, I definitely "Like" my ass ensconsed within an ergonomic, leathery, heated driver's seat. I will be keeping this ass-warmer on all winter, and I hope I don't break it. Because I won't Goddamned well "Like" that.

* T-Shirts with Words, Slogans, or Pictures on Them

They give you a convenient excuse to look at womens' chests. And who doesn't "Like" that?

* Christmas Lights

I know, right? Who the hell doesn't "Like," or even just like, Christmas lights? Well, I really do. When I was a boy, my father used to take us out in the car into the "other" neighborhoods to cruise the streets and gaze at the thousands of lights that studded the homes of Christmas celebrating folk. One winter, I think I was maybe six or seven, I was stricken with a Christmastime ague and a fever of 102. When I heard that my mother forbade me from going out to look at Christmas lights that year, I threw a fucking (O,) holy (night) roller, and my father somehow convinced my mother that it was okay to take me out, provided I was dressed appropriately. Reluctantly, she consented, but only after dressing me in two sweatsuits and wrapping me in the warmest blanket in the house.

I'll never forget, lying down on my back in the back seat of our 1986 Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera, staring up and up through the window at all the beautiful lights. They must have looked that much cooler, upside-down and fever-glazed. It was the best Christmas ever, man.

* Lobster Tail

You don't really appreciate how much you "Like" lobster tail until you've tried to eat a whole lobster, at a restaurant, in public, in front of other people. It would maybe be one thing if you rented out the whole place so you could just be there, by yourself, wearing that motherfucking plastic bib, sitting there at a table, all alone, with that big, red, intimidating thing, and you're there clutching some fucking prehistoric, dentist-looking tools, instead of, you know, a knife and fork.

I ate a whole lobster, or tried to, in 2002, and it's probably never going to happen again. I was sweating through my shirt not halfway through the meal. I mean, come on.

* You

Thank you for spending another year with me. Wow. I "Like" you-- like, for real.

;-)

Say "Cheese," Motherfuckers!

I realize that coming to this blog is a little like waking up next to someone with bipolar disorder: you never really know what you're going to get once your eyes adjust to the light.

I mean, on Monday, I could be all sentimental and schmoopie, Tuesday it could be some obscene, profanity-laced tirade extolling the virtues of shampoo-masturbation, Wednesday there's always a possibility that it will be an emotional paean to a fallen police officer, Thursday we could be serving up some guilt-laden monologue about how I don't connect with my family anymore-- and then, if you're lucky, to celebrate the glory of God and the goodness of Shabbat, on Friday you might just get donkey-punched by another fine, upstanding edition of....

DEAR APRON!

No, sorry. This isn't a Dear Apron. But, you know-- maybe tomorrow! Depends on how Jupiter's aligned with Pluto's hot cock.

So, I just wanted you to know that I appreciate that you keep coming back here, even though you never really know if you're going to encounter Jekyll or Hyde, or some bastard lovechild of Maurice Sendak and Barbara Bush. Because, let's face it, that's a possibility, too. Some folks have said that the unpredictable nature of this blog is one of the reasons why they keep coming back. Regrettably, that unpredictability and resistance to pigeonholing is probably one of the reasons why I'll never get a book out of this shit. Well, that and because I refuse to eat celery every day for a year and write about it.

I thought I'd let you know that you're going to get Angry Apron today. Now, the trouble with Angry Apron is that, when diatribing and ripping mercilessly into society's asshole, he may say something that will hurt your feelings. Just know that he doesn't mean it. He's on his period, and his fucking office chair is positively soaked that that schmenck.

Nasty.

So, Mrs. Apron took me to see "Peter and the Wolf" yesterday at the Kimmel Center. It was an anniversary gift, and I was very excited, as "Peter and the Wolf" was an important fixture of my wife's childhood, a special experience she shared with her father. Mrs. Apron and I got gussied up as we are wont to do when going "downtown." Now, seeing a children's concert at 11:30am, you have to prepare yourself for, well, shenanigans, because children, oftentimes very small ones, are involved. Not only are they involved, the entire thing is created solely for them. I mean, if Prokofiev was the type of guy who'd have a shit-fit if a five-year-old wiggle-worm squealed or shrieked during his music, he's probably not the kind of guy who'd have written "Peter and the Wolf" in the first place.

I have to believe he was cool. He and Korsakov-- they're my main motherfuckers.

Anyway, what's funny about attending events for and with children, you spend so much time preparing yourself for inappropriate behavior by children that you forget altogether to prepare yourself for inappropriate behavior by adults. Like most any teacher will tell you-- it's not the kids that drive you batshit, it's the parents.

After the concert had started (there were several mini "acts" prior to "Peter and the Wolf") in walked a husband and wife team, and their two daughters, one was three and the other was an infant. Dad handled the three-year-old, and mom had the infant on her lap.

"I need my Blackberry," Mom hissed to Dad not two minutes after they were seated, squarely in front of us. Awesome. So, Dad handed the Blackberry over to Mom. Silly Apron thought Mom asked for the device so urgently because she had forgotten to silence it. Oh, no. She started taking pictures. Pictures of her husband holding the older daughter, and pictures of herself holding the bewildered, pink-hued infant. I mean, hey-- how could I blame her-- they arrived after the "taking of photographs during the performance is strictly prohibited" warning.

I have to admit to getting a little steamed after she turned the flash on to take pictures of herself holding the baby, temporarily blinding me. Fortunately, I regained my sight long enough to watch over her shoulder in astonishment as she used the Mobile Update function on Facebook to upload the pictures so all her friends could see how chic her family was-- at the Philadelphia Orchestra at 11:30.

Wouldn't you know that, once the pictures were uploaded, they left the auditorium? Strangely enough, the woman's pocket book was still there on the floor so, after the concert, while we were all applauding the conductor and the narrator, they came back to retrieve the bag, unfortunately before I had time to defecate in it.

Now, I'm not a conspiracy theorist by nature, but it seemed an awful lot to me like these people came to this concert for the express purpose of demonstrating to their Facebook pals just how fucking awesome and metro and cultured they are, and how well they're bringing up their daughters, exposing them to the finer things in life. Of course, their daughters didn't even get to see or hear "Peter and the Wolf," didn't get to experience the absolute charm with which the animals were portrayed onstage (the wolf was a huge gray suitcase with fur ears and a tail glued on) and the infant's brain is basically a Jell-O Jiggler, so what would have been the difference to her anyway?

Look, I know all about the age in which we live. I know. And I know that I've certainly been guilty of the "OOh, let's take a picture of XYZ situation, it'll look great on Facebook" instinct, and I've followed through on that instinct on numerous occasions, but I don't do it without worrying about what it says about me, about us, about it all. Have we become a people who cannot just... be in any one given place, situation, or circumstance without recording it for Facebookville and earnestly awaiting validation, that coveted Thumbs Up, that snark-laden, clever comment that starts a chain of one-upmanship until the next status update?

I'm sure I'm not the first schmegeggie to opine about this, and I don't know what the answer is, or, if there is an answer, or if there is even a question. I just get mad sometimes. And this is Angry Apron, signing off.

See you on Facebook, Friend.

Gravebook

Gary Coleman died a few days ago, and you heard about it on Facebook.

Yesterday, Rue McClanahan died, and you also heard about that on Facebook.

When I log onto Facebook, which, admittedly, isn't very frequently, I get to experience approximately thirty-six status updates. Yesterday, at around six o'clock in the evening, I would say that approximately twenty-five of those status updates were devoted to Rue McClanahan's passing. I have no doubt that the vast majority of these updates a few days ago featured variations on the "Watchu talkin' bout, Willis?" theme.

Seven or eight of the status updates mentioning Rue McClanahan were accompanied by YouTube clips of her as Blanche Devereux, answering the telephone in her breezy, sunlit Florida ranch home or relating her latest sexual escapade in the vague and innocent way elderly television whores did back in the 1980s, when we were all much younger, sweeter, and kinder. There were at least five "Oh, no! Betty's the only one left!"

L.O.L.

Today? None of updates of my "friends" on my FB homepage bear mention of Rue McClanahan's name. Some gay guy with whom I attended college changed his profile pic to Rue's, though-- which is really respectful-- but I'm sure that, before the day is out, he'll change it to something else.

You know, because who has the stamina to keep a picture of Rue McClanahan as our profile pic for any length of time? After all, there's that new shirt from that awesome vintage shop in the Village to show off.

I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't give a shit about Gary Coleman, and I don't give a shit about Rue McClanahan either, and I don't think anybody on Facebook does either. I suppose this is our way of communicating the following message, "I grew up watching these shows, and now the stars of the shows of my youth are dying, and that makes me sad because it forces me to confront my own mortality."

But, instead, we write, "OMG! Not Rue!!!" and stick up a YouTube clip. Because we're 20somethings, or 30somethings, and that's how we roll. That's, really, all we have time for.

Our attention-spans are abysmal, our lust for whatever is au courant is absolutely insatiable, and our poor taste and clouded judgment are utterly unerring. With lives that are utterly asscrammed with media assaults and bombardments, it's amazing to me that any of us are even able to process and respond to anything that happens to us, let alone what happens in the outside, shimmery world of celebrity.

"Rue's dead. :Sniff:"

Followed by several trite, inconsequential comments.

And, then, the next day-- we're back to commenting on our own vacuous lives and those of others we went to middle school with.

God.

Maybe I'm being too judgmental. My mother is always saying that-- and she should know. It all just feels so insincere, so shallow, so... Generation Y. Is this what we've become? An endless array of status updates and comments? Where is the sincerity? The human contact? The touch? The avuncular hand on your shoulder? The hug? The sympathy letter?

Rue McClanahan left behind a husband (and five others before him), a son, and a sister. But I doubt that any of them will be getting sympathy notes from the people with whom I'm pals on Facebook.

I remember when Nixon died, that lying, paranoid shithead. It happened in April of 1994, when I was thirteen. It wasn't that terribly long ago, but it was well before status updates and the only tweets we knew of came from birds. Nixon's death moved me as a thirteen-year-old. I don't know why. When my middle school bus pulled into the circle in the morning, I noticed, looking out the window, that the American flag was flying high. As soon as I got off the bus, before putting my bookbag away or doing anything else, I walked right into the Main Office.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Pearson," I said to the secretary.

"Yes, hon?"

"The flag is not at half-staff."

She paused and cocked her head, the way my dogs do when I ask them if there is an "e" in "judgment."

"Should it be?" she asked the thirteen-year-old me.

"Yes," I stated confidently. "Nixon's dead. And I know he was a scumbag, but he was still the President of the United States of America."

She looked at me.

"Well, you're right about that. I'll call Joe right away and get it fixed."

And she picked up the enormous desk phone with enough buttons to control a satellite and pushed three buttons, summoning Joe, the janitor, who came over a few minutes later, limping slightly as always. As I stood watching, Joe undid the rope along the pole and let the flag slide down to half-staff. Before redoing the rope, he turned and checked in with me, eyebrows raised. I gave him a slight smile and nodded my head once.

There are lots of ways to acknowledge the passing of a President, or an actor, or a musician, or even a friend or relative. Some of them are small, some of them are big, some of them are public, some are private-- some seem funny fifteen years later, some are forgotten about almost in an instant. And I don't suppose any of them are wrong, really, but some just leave an acrid taste in my mouth. Maybe my problem is Facebook itself, and what it's doing to us-- ostensibly meant to bring us closer together, in reality making self-centered, attention-grabbing whores of lots of us, clinging frantically to any shred of relevance we might pretend to have in this world, at whatever the cost.

I'm a Criminal

Seriously. I'm like those rappers who shoot people.

Probably a felon, though I'm not quite sure what the legal gravity of my transgression amounts to in the eyes of the law-- but I am definitely guilty of a violation of law.

Modern law.

See-- I haven't updated my Facebook status since March 2nd. And, sooner or later, The Man is going to be kicking in my front door and will take me away from my wife and my dog and my new puppy.

And all of you. Because, surely, you can't blog from prison.

Can you?

Actually, you probably can.

So, yeah-- you're reading the words of an admitted criminal miscreant-- a dastardly ne'er-do-well who blatantly behaves in a manner counter to accepted and established societal norms.

Like all criminals, I have my reasons. Sorry-- my excuses. See, my computer exploded last week under the weight of a virus so powerful it totally overrode our OS and we had to get a completely new computer (it's an HP Slimline-- cute! Not as cute as MAC or an ambiguously ethnic celebrity child, but it's cute) and so that kind of fucked up my Facebook updating schedule.

It also threatened to fuck up my blogging schedule, but, because I love you, between my work computer and my smartphone, I found a way to make it work. Don't you feel loved?

I have lots of other excuses for my Facebook delinquency. Um, let's see-- my dad didn't pay enough attention to me from March, 1989-February, 1992. My physically stronger older sister left me feeling emasculated and ineffective as a male. My room wasn't big enough growing up. I watched too much "Rescue 911" as a child. My parents didn't let me have a dog. A once saw a clown taking a piss in a public restroom. My grandfather let me fall off the sliding board and I hurt my back. My mom cut her hair short when I was eight and then she got a full-time job.

What? Parenting me wasn't intellectually stimulating enough for her?

In any event, I would like to issue a public apology for my evident laxity in updating my Facebook status. Truly, I'm sorry. And, as someone who has a smartphone that is capable of issuing mobile status updates, I really do have no excuse.

Well, except for the ones stated above. But they are not even really sufficient to answer for my crime, and I understand that, and I accept whatever repercussions may be forthcoming.

One thing, though-- I'm a little bummed about the fact that nobody's emailed me to, you know, make sure I'm not dead. According to Facebook, which is the main source of truth for people in my age bracket, second only to the consistently unerring Wikipedia, I have 284 "friends."

Why haven't any of them checked my cyber-pulse? I mean, if you're under thirty and you're absent from Facebook for more than two weeks, that almost certainly means death. Even comatose people my age laid up and smacked down in ICU beds can usually find some way to communicate a status update to a critical care nurse through a series of mouth-twitches and eye rolls.

Makes me think-- maybe these people aren't really my friends after all....

But, if they're not.... then that means that.... you must be.

And you know I'm alive, because I update this shit far more than my Facebook page.

And, if that's true, (and, clearly it is), is My Masonic Apron becoming the new Facebook?

And, if that's true, (and it's not, but humor me for a second), could I become the new Mark Zuckerberg? And live in a palatial California mansion with blowjobs every time I turn around and five-ply toilet paper to gently caress my anus?

I like blowjobs. And soft things on my anus.

That said, I don't think I'm going to update my Facebook status again for a very long time.