“So, I think Parker and Eddie are having problems,” I tell my buddy George on the phone.“Who the hell are Parker and Eddie?”
“You remember, when we used to hang out at Mary’s, before I met Preppy? Parker was tall, had those really complicated highlights, never talked much? And Eddie was always drunk, I think he’s a florist or a doctor or something?”
“No idea who these people are,” says George. “But go on.”
“Well, they broke up yesterday, then they worked things out, but this morning there’s trouble again.”
“Why do you know this? Are they calling you?”
“No, it’s all right there on Facebook. Eddie went from ‘in a relationship’, to ‘single,’ then back to ‘in a relationship,’ and today it says ‘it’s complicated,’ which sounds like an understatement.”
“Just so I’m clear,” says George. “You don’t actually know these people?”
“I do too! From the bar, a few years ago.”
“Darling, this is absurd. Someone you knew from the bar back in your skinny days is not a friend, no matter what Facebook tells you.”
I think I’m developing a problem. After abandoning Friendster for MySpace a few years ago, last week I took the time to create a Facebook profile, since that’s apparently all the rage these days. I really just did it to keep up with the people in my life who now refuse to call, text, or e-mail. If you wanna know what’s up with them, you gotta read their “Wall”. I posted some photos, accepted a few friend requests, and had fully intended to leave it at that.
Within three days, I had two hundred friends.
I was not aware I knew two hundred people. But I hadn’t thought of my classmates from elementary school, or the next-door neighbor of a friend in New York, or the people I used to hang out alongside at bars before I moved out to the suburbs. Collectively, that adds up. And then, you start looking at those people’s friend lists, which reminds you of all sorts of other people you haven’t talked to in fifteen years, and within minutes, you’re caught up on every aspect of their existence since you last met, and you’re getting daily updates.
My friend Molly from junior high is hosting a poker tournament in Louisiana. There is not a single reason for me to possess this information. Until last week, I don’t think she and I would’ve even known each other if we were in the same elevator. I’m certainly not going to attend the poker tournament. But I know it’s coming along very well.
When I get friend requests from people whose identities I can’t quite place, I’ll click over to the photos to see if it jogs my memory. If it’s a cute boy, I’ll go through his whole album to see if he’s got any shirtless photos. It just gives my ego a healthy boost when attractive strangers want to be friends with me. Also, I like shirtless photos. Go ahead and judge, you know you like them too. It takes a minute to upload a picture, so it’s not like they put the picture up accidentally. I figure if a hot guy goes to the trouble of putting up half-naked pictures, the least I can do is observe, and decide what I think about it.
Then I have to check their relationship status, because I have several quality single friends who I’m always looking to set up with someone.
People keep sending me virtual plants, which is somehow supposed to save the rain forest, but I’m not sure how that works. Apparently there are also people “tending my patch”. Slutty Mandy recently told me she’d chased away a chipmunk that was eating my petunias, and the least I could do was send her a sunflower. I think that was the moment I realized I was completely immersed in a bizarre, foreign culture.
My cousin Nelson’s bedroom is across the hall from the den where I do most of my work. There are moments where both of us are on Facebook, messaging each other from ten feet away. We used to have actual conversations. No we send each other YouTube clips.
I don’t really worry about this scenario, because I know once the newness of it all wears off, I’ll move on. When I first discovered Xtube, my friend Greg and I competed to see who could find the most out-there, fetishy clips. But we reached a point where we saw a few things that I questioned the legality or physics of, and most of which I really wish I could un-see, so we abandoned the exercise. After that experience, plus exhausting the searches to find out if there were any clips of people I knew (and yep, there were), I haven’t really been back.
In the meantime, however, I’m enjoying getting caught up with the bartender who snuck me drinks in Florida when I was nineteen, and the guy who played a talking vending machine in the children’s show where I played a giant blue soccer-playing kitten.
And there are, of course, the unexpected benefits.
“I just got a request from some grad student who likes reading Austen and looks great in a swimsuit,” I tell George.
“Is he single?” George asks.
“Sure is,” I say. “I should introduce you. I mean, after all, now he’s a friend of mine.”
“I just got a request from some grad student who likes reading Austen and looks great in a swimsuit,” I tell George.
“Is he single?” George asks.
“Sure is,” I say. “I should introduce you. I mean, after all, now he’s a friend of mine.”
