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.

;-)

I Like Sad Songs

Oh, Eva Cassidy. You kill me.

And it can't be easy for a dead woman to kill a living man-- but you do it, and you do it swiftly, surely, but without an ounce of cruelty or malice. To be killed beautifully by your air-like voice is a blessing, a fate I accept with open arms. Your renditions of "Dark Eyed Molly" and "Fields of Gold," well, they're quite simply too much.

I like sad stories.

I like to read about Roger Ebert battling oral cancer, bereft of his voice (thank you for posting that, Adam) but never his words. I like to read about people, far braver than I, doing battle with demons in the dark and trudging their way through an unfair, mean, shitty world. I like reading about people who are introspective and sensitive and maybe even a little brooding. I like these people, and I like their stories. I like it when they triumph, and I like it when they fail. I doubt they do, though.

I like religious paintings.

I don't exactly know why, but I do. I'm not religious, and I'm certainly not the religion of most paintings that are featured in art galleries. One time I went to the National Gallery in Washington D.C. and I fell in love with a painting called "St. Jerome & the Angel" by Simon Vouet. There's St. Jerome, old as hell, sitting at a desk and trying to write, and there's this angel bothering him, trying to get his attention, and Jerome is giving him this look like, "Jesus Christ, will you leave me the fuck alone already? I'm trying to write a shopping list here and I've forgotten whether I want brown eggs or white eggs. Now fuck off already."

I love that painting. For some reason, I also love paintings where some saint or whatever is collapsing in the arms of some beautiful woman. There's a lot of those in art museums, and I love every one of them.

I can't stand depictions of the crucifixion, though. It's like-- enough already with that shit.

I like winter clothes.

I'm not particularly fond of winter as a thing by itself, but I do love that the temperature necessitates that we bust out our corduroys and our sweater vests and our blazers and our overcoats and our hats. In the summertime, I look like I have an eating-disorder. In the winter, well, I can wear what I really love to wear. I don't like that the world's boobies are all hidden away, but it's okay, because I have a toggle-coat from Brooks Brothers, and wearing it makes up for that.

I like old cars.

You've heard this rant before, so I'll spare you. All I'll say is that I don't care that they're inefficient and unsafe and unreliable. Fuck that, man. Fuck all that.

I like who I was.

I was a very sweet boy. When I was a little boy, I was very sweet, and the world made sense. The only thing I was really ever scared of was my parents dying, or me dying, and I was able to be reassured that this wouldn't happen for a long, long, long time. Today, I'm scared of everything, and nothing placates me anymore. My wife's arms and legs wrapped tightly around me under flannel covers at night is a big help, though.

I like blogging.

Sometimes it's a challenge to come up with new material every day, but not often, and this is a very good substitute for never making it as a paid writer. Nobody tells me what to do or when to do it, and, though most people recognize this blog as "funny," I don't feel any particular pressure to be funny, or to shield my blogdience from the tenderer moments of life. In fact, I don't feel any pressure at all.

I like my house.

Sure, the dishwasher is from 1964 and there's a hole in the kitchen ceiling, and the 1st floor toilet makes funny sounds when it flushes, and the lilac tree was felled by the blizzard, and they painted our bedroom the wrong color, but when my key slips into the lock after a day of work, it's like Eva Cassidy is singing, right through my heart.