A few months back, while I was visiting my family in Kentucky, I made my annual, off-the-cuff suggestion that everyone should come to Tennessee and have Thanksgiving at our house. Although the invitation was sincere, I was still fairly shocked when the idea was met with not just approval but a dizzyingly efficient bit of Warford family logistical brainstorming.
Within minutes my mother had devised not only their travel schedule (including…the time they would need to be on the road, when the meal would be served and the exact time they would need to depart for home the next day), but she had also sketched out a general menu of who would bring what. It was just another reminder that if my Mom had been in charge of the war in Iraq, our soldiers would have been home in time for the first Christmas. She is a master at coordination and timely exit strategies.
Once we got home, it began to sink in that I had committed us to a fairly large undertaking. I have had family visit before, but not so many. In addition to my parents, my two brothers and their wives would be coming, as well as two nieces and their three children. I looked around our house and wondered where I would put everyone.
Thank goodness for Hilton Honors points! Just down the road from our house is a nice, fairly new Hampton Inn hotel. Five room reservations later and the bathroom/bed issue was taken care of, but not the issue of “where is everyone going to eat?”
For some strange reason we thought our recent home renovation would expand the existing structure. This was a basic failure in concept. Everything does look different (and hopefully, better), but square footage wise, we have the same house…and the same limitations.
Then I remembered our holiday meals when I was a kid. My Mamaw and Papaw, aunt, uncle and cousins would descend upon our house for holidays, and it wasn’t about where we sat. The rooms in my parent’s old house were not large either, and the “kids” table often sat in the master bedroom off the den. From the laughter and chatter that always echoed through the door, I don’t think it mattered where we ate.
Our Thanksgiving meal was always lunch, served at 1pm. That gave us kids the time to watch the Macy’s parade in the morning while Mom did her magic in the kitchen. As we got older, we’d be recruited to help with menial tasks, like peeling potatoes or rolling bananas in chopped peanuts. The menu was extensive, but somehow Mom always had everything hot and ready when it was time to eat.
On TV and in movies, the big holiday turkey came to the table whole, glistening and dark brown, stuffed with dressing and garnished around the platter. We didn’t have that kind of table space, or that kind of time. Waiting for everyone to gather, hold hands and watch Dad carve the turkey would have caused our other food to grow cold. Our holiday meals were essentially a buffet line of everyone’s favorite dishes. Mom did not hold back, partly for fear that someone would be disappointed, but mostly because she loved to make us happy…and well fed.
Due to the multitude of dishes sitting on every available surface, the turkey was always pre-sliced, served on a large platter with the pre-carved ham. When it was time to eat, we’d all gather in the kitchen for Dad to pray. As a kid, I probably didn’t listen to the words of any of those Thanksgiving prayers. My mind was overwhelmed by the waves of intoxicating food smells flowing through the room. Still, I’m pretty sure I got the message, because I was always happy and grateful to be there; blessed then and now to be a part of my family.
It won’t be the same having the meal at my house and not in the house I grew up in. Unlike Mom, I am not making everyone’s favorite food (just mine). It won’t be the same for a lot of reasons, but I hope the spirit of the day and the joy of being together is still as strong as when I was younger. I want those kinds of memories for my kids. Vivid and sweet, warm with laughter, the smell of heaven drifting out of the stove and throughout the house.
I hope they feel thankful.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
"Team Dad"
I enjoy a good romantic story. I say this as a pre-emptive defense against what will no doubt be a barrage of “typical male,” and “you just don’t understand” responses to what I am about to say. If you know me at all, you should know that I am not “typical.” I’m a heterosexual male who enjoys show-tunes. I would rather watch Sleepless in Seattle or The Proposal instead of either of the Transformers films, and I do not like NASCAR or Wrestling. I could go on trying to explain myself, but I fear I may have already crossed a line and will be refused entry to men’s rooms across America.
The four women of my house are all aglow this week over the eminent release of “New Moon,” the second movie in the Twilight saga. They have their tickets purchased for opening day and are divided into friendly camps of “Team Edward” and “Team Jacob,” although I’m sure they would happily join whichever “Team shows up at the door.”
I freely admit that I have not read any of the Twilight books, but I know the stories. (SPOILER ALERT: if you have not read the books and plan to do so, please don’t read further). The basic outline is something like this: Bella meets Edward the vampire in book one and they fall in love (with lots of soulful staring on her part, lots of soulless longing on his). In book two, Edward leaves Bella to protect her from the violent nature of vampires, allowing Jacob the werewolf to move in, usually shirtless. Something happens at the end and Edward and Bella are reunited.
Book three finds them fighting a dangerous vampire threat while working out their confusing love triangle. Bella realizes that she loves both Jacob and Edward, but the wily wisdom of the old bloodsucker wins out, leaving Jacob to run away, searching for a silver bullet.
In the final book, Bella and Edward marry and immediately conceive a child. Bella nearly dies during childbirth, so Edward turns her into a vampire as well, promising them an immortal life of youth, devotion and pale skin. Jacob, having returned and not wanting to be left out, “imprints” on their newborn daughter, which is somehow explained as making her his soul-mate (but not in a creepy way).
I assume that there is much more to it than that, but honestly, I could care less. I still can’t get past the disturbing premise. First, we’re supposed to accept that it’s perfectly okay for a one hundred year old vampire to stalk the halls of a high school and hit on teenage girls. As a father of three daughters, I have a minor objection to that.
Then, I have to wonder, why is this guy still in high school? How stupid is he? This has to be his 20th trip through twelfth grade! Is this supposed to be an indictment on the state of our public education system? Storywise, the only reason Edward is in high school is to meet Bella. That’s not fate, that’s stretching credibility. He should have moved on with his life long ago. (He could be a young looking Doctor. It worked with Doogie Howser).
Fans ignore all of this however. His age supposedly gives him a worldly essence, a Victorian romantic spirit as if a young Heathcliff himself walked straight off the moors into a modern American high school. “Men don’t act like that these days,” those caught under his undead spell will say. “He respects her and protects her. He’s so courteous and manly.”
Have they looked at the guy in the movie? He reminds me of an eighties punk rocker. Sort of like Billy Idol without all the leather and different color hair. Real men don’t wear lipstick.
I guess one reason that this bothers me so much is that the heroine, Bella, is every father’s worst nightmare. She’s that smart, good girl who suddenly becomes obsessed with the dangerous boy. She throws everything else away in her desire to be near him. Nothing else matters. When she’s grounded by her Dad, she slips out and runs through menacing forests and jumps off cliffs. Her life has no meaning without Edward (or…for a short time, the hunky, shirtless, but also very dangerous Jacob).
Bella is definitely not the role model for an “independent, strong young woman with healthy self-esteem” that we parents wish for. She is a morose, delusional, morbidly selfish girl who finds her self-worth only through the man she loves. In a world without vampires and werewolves, she’d end up being the doormat of some brutish, semi-charismatic loudmouth, wearing long sleeves to hide the bruises and telling her family that she can’t leave him because he loves her so much.
Am I taking all of this too seriously? Yeah, probably. It’s just a silly set of books and movies. Surely teenage girls can separate the difference between a fictional character (who might be dangerous but is primarily honorable and sexy), and the hot guy at the next locker (who tells her how pretty she is, opens her car door, and threatens that if she really loved him, she’d prove it). That’s just the nature of romance, right?
Like most of my rants and arguments, this will likely fall on deaf ears. “Much ado about nothing,” will be the snickering answer, and I sincerely hope so. I hope my girls enjoy it for what it is and see it for what it isn’t. I pray that they understand that the real-life “Edwards” are not always so chivalrous, and the real-life “Jacobs” might not always be the rescuer, but the one they need rescuing from. I hope they don’t get blinded by pretty boys who somehow “sparkle” in the sun, but find someone who thinks and treats them like they hung the moon.
The four women of my house are all aglow this week over the eminent release of “New Moon,” the second movie in the Twilight saga. They have their tickets purchased for opening day and are divided into friendly camps of “Team Edward” and “Team Jacob,” although I’m sure they would happily join whichever “Team shows up at the door.”
I freely admit that I have not read any of the Twilight books, but I know the stories. (SPOILER ALERT: if you have not read the books and plan to do so, please don’t read further). The basic outline is something like this: Bella meets Edward the vampire in book one and they fall in love (with lots of soulful staring on her part, lots of soulless longing on his). In book two, Edward leaves Bella to protect her from the violent nature of vampires, allowing Jacob the werewolf to move in, usually shirtless. Something happens at the end and Edward and Bella are reunited.
Book three finds them fighting a dangerous vampire threat while working out their confusing love triangle. Bella realizes that she loves both Jacob and Edward, but the wily wisdom of the old bloodsucker wins out, leaving Jacob to run away, searching for a silver bullet.
In the final book, Bella and Edward marry and immediately conceive a child. Bella nearly dies during childbirth, so Edward turns her into a vampire as well, promising them an immortal life of youth, devotion and pale skin. Jacob, having returned and not wanting to be left out, “imprints” on their newborn daughter, which is somehow explained as making her his soul-mate (but not in a creepy way).
I assume that there is much more to it than that, but honestly, I could care less. I still can’t get past the disturbing premise. First, we’re supposed to accept that it’s perfectly okay for a one hundred year old vampire to stalk the halls of a high school and hit on teenage girls. As a father of three daughters, I have a minor objection to that.
Then, I have to wonder, why is this guy still in high school? How stupid is he? This has to be his 20th trip through twelfth grade! Is this supposed to be an indictment on the state of our public education system? Storywise, the only reason Edward is in high school is to meet Bella. That’s not fate, that’s stretching credibility. He should have moved on with his life long ago. (He could be a young looking Doctor. It worked with Doogie Howser).
Fans ignore all of this however. His age supposedly gives him a worldly essence, a Victorian romantic spirit as if a young Heathcliff himself walked straight off the moors into a modern American high school. “Men don’t act like that these days,” those caught under his undead spell will say. “He respects her and protects her. He’s so courteous and manly.”
Have they looked at the guy in the movie? He reminds me of an eighties punk rocker. Sort of like Billy Idol without all the leather and different color hair. Real men don’t wear lipstick.
I guess one reason that this bothers me so much is that the heroine, Bella, is every father’s worst nightmare. She’s that smart, good girl who suddenly becomes obsessed with the dangerous boy. She throws everything else away in her desire to be near him. Nothing else matters. When she’s grounded by her Dad, she slips out and runs through menacing forests and jumps off cliffs. Her life has no meaning without Edward (or…for a short time, the hunky, shirtless, but also very dangerous Jacob).
Bella is definitely not the role model for an “independent, strong young woman with healthy self-esteem” that we parents wish for. She is a morose, delusional, morbidly selfish girl who finds her self-worth only through the man she loves. In a world without vampires and werewolves, she’d end up being the doormat of some brutish, semi-charismatic loudmouth, wearing long sleeves to hide the bruises and telling her family that she can’t leave him because he loves her so much.
Am I taking all of this too seriously? Yeah, probably. It’s just a silly set of books and movies. Surely teenage girls can separate the difference between a fictional character (who might be dangerous but is primarily honorable and sexy), and the hot guy at the next locker (who tells her how pretty she is, opens her car door, and threatens that if she really loved him, she’d prove it). That’s just the nature of romance, right?
Like most of my rants and arguments, this will likely fall on deaf ears. “Much ado about nothing,” will be the snickering answer, and I sincerely hope so. I hope my girls enjoy it for what it is and see it for what it isn’t. I pray that they understand that the real-life “Edwards” are not always so chivalrous, and the real-life “Jacobs” might not always be the rescuer, but the one they need rescuing from. I hope they don’t get blinded by pretty boys who somehow “sparkle” in the sun, but find someone who thinks and treats them like they hung the moon.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Barking at the Moon
I used to have a poster hanging in my office that said “just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.” I’m not sure what happened to it. I’m pretty sure someone stole it. I can’t prove that, because whoever did it was likely a professional. They left no trace. That’s how they work.
I have always been intrigued by conspiracies. Even before I stood behind the wooden fence on the grassy knoll in Dallas or strolled through the infamous seventh floor of the book Depository building, I knew that Lee Harvey Oswald did not act alone. In fact, I was fairly confident that he might not have been involved at all. The Warren Commission report was one of the great lies ever foisted upon the American public. But certainly not the only one.
Rich and powerful men have twisted and distorted information since the beginning of civilization. Whether to protect those whom they don’t feel are intelligent enough to handle the truth, or more likely to promote some nefarious plan to increase their wealth and/or power, they use all of their means to keep us in a dark, ignorant place.
What exactly (and we all have the right to ask), is in Area 51? Who are the “committee of 300” and the “Skull and Bones Society?” What secrets do the Freemasons hold, and why do they hold them? How many licks DOES it take to get to the center of a tootsie roll pop? Enquiring minds want to know.
Regardless of the political party, those who run for office or maintain positions of power in our government are, without fail, members of the “haves” and definitely not the “have nots.” To get to those lofty heights, you have to know someone (and not Bubba the mechanic, who lives down the road). It’s a vicious cycle that never seems to end; with our laws, fortunes and national destiny run by people who are no more common than the use of a two dollar bill. Even if they start out trying to do the right thing, by the time they have reached the point of an election, they have shaken too many hands in dark rooms and nodded approval to too many suggestions whispered over their shoulder.
But I digress….
What got me pondering this ocean of paranoia? I’m sure you are dying to know. It’s simple…high school math.
My middle daughter was deep in thought, hunched over her sophomore Algebra 2/Trigonometry book, and as I walked past, she asked if I could look at one of the problems. (I’ll pause here to explain that math is not one of my strong suits. I do fairly well at addition, subtraction, multiplication and division…but when it gets to algebra, I generally say, “I’ll never use that.” I said that in high school and college, and unlike most things I thought back then, it has turned out to be true. I have yet to run into a single situation in my adult life where algebra has been required to survive. In fact, I’ve never had anyone ask me to figure out what X is.)
Anyway…she shows me the problem and there’s a series of equations with both an x and an i in place of numbers. “What does the “i” mean?” I ask.
“That’s an “imaginary number.”
“Isn’t “X” an imaginary number?”
“No, “X” is a real number.”
This went against my internal logic. “Then why isn’t it actually a number? If it’s a letter and not a number, then isn’t it imaginary too? And why don’t you just make up an answer? Say the answer is “J.” Tell the teacher you made up an imaginary answer.”
She looked at me with the sad expression of a kid who suddenly remembers that their father is an idiot. She dropped her head back to her studies and said, “You know Dad, I’ll figure it out.”
So once again, I’ve failed one of my children. That’s not uncommon. Nor is it my point. The purpose of this little diatribe is that there are people who create things only to make other people feel stupid. It’s just another conspiracy. I mean, seriously, why do we need “imaginary” numbers? I have no doubt that Rafael Bombelli, the perpetrator of this ridiculous scam, was probably a Freemason.
We’ve put a lot of faith in smart people, but I have to wonder, is there a possibility that they are only considered smart because they tell us they are? Our world becomes increasingly complex as eggheads and scientists try to explain how things work. Most of us stop trying to understand after a while and simply say, “Whatever…you guys deal with that.” Consider how a magician puts on a cape and a tall hat and performs an illusion…amazing the audience with a simple sleight of hand primarily because he is dressed for the part.
I was at a conference a few years back where a renowned scientist spoke. He had been working on a theory for nearly forty years. (Read that again and let it sink in). He has been performing government funded research for four decades (practically my entire life) and admits that he has not resolved or proven anything. After he spoke, he gleefully showed photos of his new yacht to colleagues and boasted of his impending retirement. Even more frightening than that was the fact that four other (younger) scientists spoke at the same conference about their research based upon his “unproven” theory!
I’m sure that the obvious response from those who support him would be that I am simply not smart enough to understand the research. My feeble mind cannot comprehend the importance and significance of his work. My answer to that would be that after 40 years of no proof or practical application to whatever his theory is, he obviously doesn’t understand it either.
So, yeah…I guess I am paranoid. I see conspiracies in unanswered questions. I find malice in double talk. I don’t trust people in authority who don’t explain or justify their decisions. I’m pretty sure Big Brother is always watching…even crazy bloggers who like to bark at the moon. I should probably be more careful.
I have always been intrigued by conspiracies. Even before I stood behind the wooden fence on the grassy knoll in Dallas or strolled through the infamous seventh floor of the book Depository building, I knew that Lee Harvey Oswald did not act alone. In fact, I was fairly confident that he might not have been involved at all. The Warren Commission report was one of the great lies ever foisted upon the American public. But certainly not the only one.
Rich and powerful men have twisted and distorted information since the beginning of civilization. Whether to protect those whom they don’t feel are intelligent enough to handle the truth, or more likely to promote some nefarious plan to increase their wealth and/or power, they use all of their means to keep us in a dark, ignorant place.
What exactly (and we all have the right to ask), is in Area 51? Who are the “committee of 300” and the “Skull and Bones Society?” What secrets do the Freemasons hold, and why do they hold them? How many licks DOES it take to get to the center of a tootsie roll pop? Enquiring minds want to know.
Regardless of the political party, those who run for office or maintain positions of power in our government are, without fail, members of the “haves” and definitely not the “have nots.” To get to those lofty heights, you have to know someone (and not Bubba the mechanic, who lives down the road). It’s a vicious cycle that never seems to end; with our laws, fortunes and national destiny run by people who are no more common than the use of a two dollar bill. Even if they start out trying to do the right thing, by the time they have reached the point of an election, they have shaken too many hands in dark rooms and nodded approval to too many suggestions whispered over their shoulder.
But I digress….
What got me pondering this ocean of paranoia? I’m sure you are dying to know. It’s simple…high school math.
My middle daughter was deep in thought, hunched over her sophomore Algebra 2/Trigonometry book, and as I walked past, she asked if I could look at one of the problems. (I’ll pause here to explain that math is not one of my strong suits. I do fairly well at addition, subtraction, multiplication and division…but when it gets to algebra, I generally say, “I’ll never use that.” I said that in high school and college, and unlike most things I thought back then, it has turned out to be true. I have yet to run into a single situation in my adult life where algebra has been required to survive. In fact, I’ve never had anyone ask me to figure out what X is.)
Anyway…she shows me the problem and there’s a series of equations with both an x and an i in place of numbers. “What does the “i” mean?” I ask.
“That’s an “imaginary number.”
“Isn’t “X” an imaginary number?”
“No, “X” is a real number.”
This went against my internal logic. “Then why isn’t it actually a number? If it’s a letter and not a number, then isn’t it imaginary too? And why don’t you just make up an answer? Say the answer is “J.” Tell the teacher you made up an imaginary answer.”
She looked at me with the sad expression of a kid who suddenly remembers that their father is an idiot. She dropped her head back to her studies and said, “You know Dad, I’ll figure it out.”
So once again, I’ve failed one of my children. That’s not uncommon. Nor is it my point. The purpose of this little diatribe is that there are people who create things only to make other people feel stupid. It’s just another conspiracy. I mean, seriously, why do we need “imaginary” numbers? I have no doubt that Rafael Bombelli, the perpetrator of this ridiculous scam, was probably a Freemason.
We’ve put a lot of faith in smart people, but I have to wonder, is there a possibility that they are only considered smart because they tell us they are? Our world becomes increasingly complex as eggheads and scientists try to explain how things work. Most of us stop trying to understand after a while and simply say, “Whatever…you guys deal with that.” Consider how a magician puts on a cape and a tall hat and performs an illusion…amazing the audience with a simple sleight of hand primarily because he is dressed for the part.
I was at a conference a few years back where a renowned scientist spoke. He had been working on a theory for nearly forty years. (Read that again and let it sink in). He has been performing government funded research for four decades (practically my entire life) and admits that he has not resolved or proven anything. After he spoke, he gleefully showed photos of his new yacht to colleagues and boasted of his impending retirement. Even more frightening than that was the fact that four other (younger) scientists spoke at the same conference about their research based upon his “unproven” theory!
I’m sure that the obvious response from those who support him would be that I am simply not smart enough to understand the research. My feeble mind cannot comprehend the importance and significance of his work. My answer to that would be that after 40 years of no proof or practical application to whatever his theory is, he obviously doesn’t understand it either.
So, yeah…I guess I am paranoid. I see conspiracies in unanswered questions. I find malice in double talk. I don’t trust people in authority who don’t explain or justify their decisions. I’m pretty sure Big Brother is always watching…even crazy bloggers who like to bark at the moon. I should probably be more careful.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
News to Me
A lot of us are upset about the new FaceBook homepage, and with good reason. With the logic of a meth addict, the big brothers at FaceBook master control have decided that our world is not confusing enough, and that we need not only MORE information, but a double dose of the same information (only scrambled into an incoherent mess).
I never know which homepage might pop up when I go to my FaceBook. Will it be the current (hence the word “live”) “Live News Feed,” or the random, confusing and seemingly pointless “News Feed.” I assume the “News Feed” is an effort to cater to those who have been highly medicated or hiking on the Appalachian Trail for several days, since the posts sole purpose seems to be to tell you what people were doing yesterday or possibly a week ago. I could less care less about that. I live in the now.
I’ve read that their goal was to create a filtering structure that would allow us to create the home page that we want to see, but I might need new glasses, because I can’t envision what they are talking about. I have learned that I can filter out certain applications and any friends that I don’t want to see anymore, but I have not learned how to get rid of particular FaceBook annoyances that seem to never go away.
While I am always interested in the photos my friends post (okay, I’ll be completely honest…I’m only “usually” interested in the photos, just as my photos of buildings, trees or my kids making goofy faces are only of interest to close friends, family and the terminally bored), Facebook has generously given me the option to filter them out. I do not, apparently, have the option to get rid of all the “Bob became a fan of Fat Free Cool Whip” or “Sue became a fan of Rob Pattinson’s left ankle” posts. These seem to spread through my live feed like kudzu and cannot be killed.
Being a “fan” of something is a big thing on FaceBook. I jumped on a few bandwagons when I first joined, but then I realized that there were no actual perks or benefits to stating my support, and I would never get that autographed photo of Julio Iglesias I’ve always dreamed of, so I gave up.
Besides, I'm not giving my stamp of approval to just anyone or anything. Who knows, it might come back to haunt me someday that I was a FaceBook fan of "orange marmalade" or something which seems totally innocent now but might one day be the cause of a global catastrophe. Who or what you are a fan of on FaceBook might be how they sort out the wheat from the chaff. Laugh now, but one day, as you stand behind a barbed wire fence staring out at what used to be your freedom; you'll remember my words...and shed a tear.
I could also care less about who my friends are becoming friends with. These nuggets of information take up prime real estate on my crowded homepage and only serve to make me aware that almost everyone seems to know many more people than I do. Admittedly, I am pretty selective about who becomes my friend (don’t get a big head, some of you, because I have had my weak moments and let a few “acquaintances” slip through the cracks), but when I see folks who have four or five hundred friends, I have to wonder how they keep up. I feel guilty for not having enough time for my meager one hundred and thirty seven. How do they share the love? They must not have a job. (Or maybe…just maybe…they aren’t truly “friends” with all those people. Shameful).
At least I can hide all the game updates. I’m thrilled that my friends enjoy Farmville, Mafia Wars and many others, but I don’t need to know every time you plant a virtual row of corn or take out another simulated hit man. If I couldn’t hide all the game apps in my Live Feed, I’d spend hours searching through the countless updates to find what is really important to me: what my friends had for dinner and who did or didn’t sleep well last night.
I never know which homepage might pop up when I go to my FaceBook. Will it be the current (hence the word “live”) “Live News Feed,” or the random, confusing and seemingly pointless “News Feed.” I assume the “News Feed” is an effort to cater to those who have been highly medicated or hiking on the Appalachian Trail for several days, since the posts sole purpose seems to be to tell you what people were doing yesterday or possibly a week ago. I could less care less about that. I live in the now.
I’ve read that their goal was to create a filtering structure that would allow us to create the home page that we want to see, but I might need new glasses, because I can’t envision what they are talking about. I have learned that I can filter out certain applications and any friends that I don’t want to see anymore, but I have not learned how to get rid of particular FaceBook annoyances that seem to never go away.
While I am always interested in the photos my friends post (okay, I’ll be completely honest…I’m only “usually” interested in the photos, just as my photos of buildings, trees or my kids making goofy faces are only of interest to close friends, family and the terminally bored), Facebook has generously given me the option to filter them out. I do not, apparently, have the option to get rid of all the “Bob became a fan of Fat Free Cool Whip” or “Sue became a fan of Rob Pattinson’s left ankle” posts. These seem to spread through my live feed like kudzu and cannot be killed.
Being a “fan” of something is a big thing on FaceBook. I jumped on a few bandwagons when I first joined, but then I realized that there were no actual perks or benefits to stating my support, and I would never get that autographed photo of Julio Iglesias I’ve always dreamed of, so I gave up.
Besides, I'm not giving my stamp of approval to just anyone or anything. Who knows, it might come back to haunt me someday that I was a FaceBook fan of "orange marmalade" or something which seems totally innocent now but might one day be the cause of a global catastrophe. Who or what you are a fan of on FaceBook might be how they sort out the wheat from the chaff. Laugh now, but one day, as you stand behind a barbed wire fence staring out at what used to be your freedom; you'll remember my words...and shed a tear.
I could also care less about who my friends are becoming friends with. These nuggets of information take up prime real estate on my crowded homepage and only serve to make me aware that almost everyone seems to know many more people than I do. Admittedly, I am pretty selective about who becomes my friend (don’t get a big head, some of you, because I have had my weak moments and let a few “acquaintances” slip through the cracks), but when I see folks who have four or five hundred friends, I have to wonder how they keep up. I feel guilty for not having enough time for my meager one hundred and thirty seven. How do they share the love? They must not have a job. (Or maybe…just maybe…they aren’t truly “friends” with all those people. Shameful).
At least I can hide all the game updates. I’m thrilled that my friends enjoy Farmville, Mafia Wars and many others, but I don’t need to know every time you plant a virtual row of corn or take out another simulated hit man. If I couldn’t hide all the game apps in my Live Feed, I’d spend hours searching through the countless updates to find what is really important to me: what my friends had for dinner and who did or didn’t sleep well last night.
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