Friday, January 29, 2010

Unfriending FaceBook

FaceBook reminds me of the movie, Fatal Attraction. It starts out feeling like something special, all warmth and happiness, until you gradually find yourself wondering how you ever let such a monster into your life.

I broke up with FaceBook this week. But, I'm considering revisiting a remodeled version in the future because it actually put me in touch with a lot of old friends.

I began the first work on the face lift yesterday by pruning my Friends list, an activity that seems to be the current rage. Not the kind of pruning that trims a wild branch here and there, mind you, but the kind that cuts the bush to just above ground level in hopes that it will grow back into something presentable one day, knowing that if it doesn't, you didn't have a lot to lose.

I started by looking at the profile photos in my Friends list and having a brief discussion with each.

"I don't even know you, anymore. I'm not sure I ever did," I said tearfully to the first photo.

Seriously, how did I end up with several "friends" that I don't know and can't even explain why I ever accepted their friend request? Unfriended 'em all.

As I carried on conversations with scores of profile photos, finger-quoting "friends" began to exhaust me, and my cat was looking at me funny, so I decided to call them FBriends, instead. It's difficult to pronounce, but not so much when the entire conversation takes place in your head.

Next, I asked myself if I'd be happy to meet that person in the profile photo in a hallway by chance. No? Unfriended.

The straw that broke the camel's back for me was a FBriend who seemed elated that I would continue to lack access to affordable private health insurance after the Massachusetts senatorial election. Now, I'm fine with someone not sharing my political views, and feel free to express joy that your candidate won, but celebrate the denial of my health care coverage out of earshot. You're outta here.

The next step was trickier. Parents of teens know that you are who you hang out with. So, I wondered what to do with the FBriend of a Friend who, just after the same election, suggested that it was actually God who doesn't want me to have health insurance. As far as I know, there is no way to block a response to a friend's post from one of their friends. I had to weigh whether keeping that friend on FaceBook was also worth the baggage of his friends. Given marginal objections to some of the comments from the friend himself, the excess weight of that baggage nudged me toward dumping the whole bunch overboard.

Now, I realize this probably sounds like I'm only jettisoning the people who don't share my political and religious views, but au contraire! A former coworker shares nearly all my political views, but the rants from his soapbox have become so shrill that not even I want to hear them, anymore. Hit the bricks, my well-intended friend.

On the other hand, I kept a friend who also applauded the dashing of any hopes I might have had of one day escaping the dreaded preexisting conditions, because I'm convinced his heart is in the right place. (Fortunately, he has health insurance, so even if his heart were in the wrong place he could probably get that corrected.)

I found another coworker who was a close friend years ago. I did something to offend him, however, and I've never really been certain what that was. Over the years, I tried desperately to make amends, only to be rebuffed time and again. In the spirit of just giving up, I pulled the plug. Nobody's friendship, online or off, is worth that much effort. Don't let the screen door hitcha'.

The next part was easy. I looked at the profile of some FBriends I hadn't heard from in a while. If they hadn't posted anything since say, 2007, I pronounced "Time of Death".

Dumb gets you booted, too. A friend recently posted, "O CHAIR!!!!!!!!!!!". When I replied that it might be the most nebulous post I had ever read, she thought I was paying her a compliment.

Lastly, I headed for privacy settings and limited everything to Friends.

So, is it safe to go back in the water? I made a prescient resolution a few weeks back (on FaceBook, of course), to have a year of less anger and more HIDE button. I'll try to remember that instead of exploding next time someone suggests that God supports their political party, or I hear a multimillionaire arguing that our health care system works just fine, and I'll simply unfriend that person when it happens. But for now, I believe I have reduced my Friends list to just those people I truly want to be around.

Thing is, about the only person left on that list now is my wife, and we don't really need FaceBook to communicate.

Sunday, January 17, 2010

The Old Green Ford

The kitchen was quite small and crowded and that's probably why Carl was able to open the cabinet door under the kitchen sink, pull out a half-pint bottle of his Dad's whiskey, and stash it in the back pocket of his jeans without his parents noticing. His mother and sister stood nearby talking, while Dale and I squeezed behind the kitchen table. There must have been six of us in the tiny kitchen. I'm not sure Dale saw the grab, but I did, and I was confused. I thought the three of us were headed for the county fair. We were, just not for the reason I assumed.

Carl was crazy about Ellen. She lived on the opposite side of the next block, across a cornfield that was next to a cemetery. I saw him walk into the cornfield, when the stalks were higher than our heads, and I followed him to see what was up. He walked through the tall corn to the edge near Ellen's backyard and then turned to me and put his index finger to his lips. Her parents were there with her. We waited in that cornfield for her parents to go inside so he could have a chance to speak to her, but they didn't, so he eventually gave up and we left. I knew he had it bad for her.

Unbeknownst to me, they had broken up earlier in the day and Carl's heart was broken. He knew Ellen was going to the county fair that night and that was the motive I had missed.

Carl was two years ahead of me in school and he already had his drivers license. Unable to drive, I had to scramble for a social life, and if I couldn't find a ride, it meant staying home and watching TV on a Friday or Saturday night and imagining that every other teenager in town was out cruising and having the time of their life, at least that's how it always sounded on Monday mornings back at school. When Carl asked if Dale and I wanted to go to the fair with him, I didn't think twice.

Carl drove an old, two-tone green and white 1958 Ford that his Dad had bought him. It was on its last legs, but on this night it successfully delivered us to the fairgrounds outside of our small southern town.

On the way, Carl took large swigs from the clear, half-pint glass bottle of whiskey he held between his thighs as he drove and by the time we completed the fifteen-minute drive to the fairgrounds, the bottle was nearly empty. I was amazed that anyone could swallow that much whiskey that fast. He was a man on a mission.

Sneaking into a county fair to avoid the small admission fee at the gate was de rigueur and never difficult. Instead of turning right onto the gravel road that led to the gates, Carl continued down the highway about fifty yards and parked on the grass shoulder next to a cornfield that had recently been cut and consisted at this point in the season of the stumps of stalks about a foot high. The light of the full moon was all we needed to see our way across the muddy field and onto the midway. He hadn't shown the effects of all that liquor up until now, but he stumbled ever so slightly as he stepped out of the car and his speech began to slur as we entered the fairgrounds, so Dale and I began to watch him closely.

Dale was a fixture in the group of nearly a dozen teenagers in our neighborhood that bordered the city high school grounds. He, too, was older than me and he had a drivers license, but his parents rarely loaned him the car. We all played basketball in my driveway and usually shot marbles in my backyard.

Carl staggered up to a midway game where you toss quarters and get to keep a piece of glassware if the coin lands on it. They nearly always slid off the other side. Dale and I flanked him. Carl took careful aim with a quarter, not a trivial investment for a high school kid in the late sixties, eventually tossed it and missed the entire table of glassware by at least three feet.

Carl tried to engage a carnival worker, just a bit older than us, in conversation. "Where are you from?" he asked. By this point, his intoxication was obvious, though the overabundance of English Leather covered the smell of whiskey on his breath.

"Douche Bag, Montana," came the smart-ass reply.

"Dewsbeck?" Carl asked with an expression of complete bewilderment, struggling to form the words with his now disconnected lips. "Where's that at?"

The carny looked at Carl quizzically. "I said douche bag. You don't know what a douche bag is?"

We didn't, so he went on to explain in graphic terms. Carl slapped his thigh, broke into hysterical laughter and staggered off to the next booth where, unfortunately, he ran into Ellen, as he had hoped he would from the start.

Ellen was mortified by the sloppy drunk who now stood in front of her. Carl tried to talk to her, but his speech was almost unintelligible and he could barely keep his balance. She stood eight feet away with her arms crossed in front of her and held her ground.

"Carl," she said, "you're embarrassing yourself and you're embarrassing me." She kept glancing at me as if I could somehow help her out of the situation and when he was distracted and lost his balance, I saw my chance. Dale and I grabbed his arms to keep him from falling, I caught her eye and mouthed "go" to her, and she disappeared like a puff of smoke. Carl knew she was gone for good, so we convinced him to head back to the car, now fully supported by the two of us.

As we walked back across the same moonlit, muddy cornfield with Carl hanging between the two of us, his head drooping and his feet sometimes dragging, he suddenly told us to stop.

"I gotta piss," he informed us.

Dale gave me a look that said, "how the hell is this going to work?" I quickly decided that, like the atomic bomb tests in Nevada in the fifties, if you absolutely had to watch something like this you damned sure wanted to do it from a distance. We gave him plenty of room as he unzipped his pants and began to urinate.

Shortly, though, he stumbled and, both hands currently occupied and unavailable to help regain his balance, he began falling and then running backwards, trailing a streaming arc high into the moonlit night. It was the most amazing display of athleticism I had ever seen from a shitfaced teenager. He actually ran backwards about six complete steps before falling flat on his back with a loud groan.

Dale and I looked at each other and started laughing. "What are we going to do now?" Dale asked as Carl tried to collect himself and stand up.

"We?", I asked him with all the indignity I could muster. Friendship has its limits, even if that friend has his drivers license.

We eventually dragged Carl back to the car and laid him flat in the backseat. Dale told me he knew some friends of Carl's family that lived nearby. Dale drove Carl's car to Robert Earl and Bonny's house in the outer suburbs of our town. They welcomed us in, laid Carl on the couch and listened to our story.

"He drank an entire half-pint of whiskey in less than a half-hour," I explained.

"Hell, that ain't nuthin'," Robert Earl assured us. "Why, you shoulda' seen Bonny and me drinkin' moonshine at the state fair when we was in high school. Now that was a drunk. He'll be OK, but he'll have a head on him tomorrow. There's nothing we can do, you're just gonna have to take him home so he can sleep it off."

Once again, Dale and I strung Carl like a hammock between the two of us and headed out the front door, his feet dragging now toes-down, down the sidewalk and to the street where we had parked. I noticed a car's headlights approaching us slowly from down the street and, against all odds, in a small suburb without a single car or person on the streets, we stared into the unsmiling face of a state trooper. We froze.

"What's the matter with him that he has to be led?" the trooper asked through his open passenger side window.

"He's sick," Dale responded immediately. "We've been to the fair and he ate too much cotton candy."

This was, of course, precisely the correct thing to say. When it appears that a police officer might be about to cut you a break, it is always wise to insult his intelligence. I tried to jump in for the save.

"Were taking him home," I assured the officer.

"Yeah, were taking him home," Dale immediately repeated, catching on quickly.

Carl lifted his head as best he could. "They're taking me home," he informed the officer for a third time in a drunken slur.

I figured I was about to spend the rest of the night in a police cruiser with my friend, Stupid, and my other friend, Drunk and Stupid, but the trooper just asked me what Carl's name was and where he lived and then he inexplicably drove away. I had come awfully close to needing a change of underwear.

We drove Carl to my house, a few doors down from his, and took him inside to prepare to face his parents. My mother, known for making brutally strong coffee, told him to drink a cup. He took one sip, screwed his face into a grimace, and still slurring his speech terribly, mumbled, "Geez, this is like eating the grounds or somethin'."

Mom's friend, Ray, suggested that walking around the block in the cool air might help sober him a little. Ray and I grabbed Carl's arms, a position I had now been in for much of the evening, and began walking. About halfway around the block, Ray told me to run. The three of us ran about ten steps when Carl yelled, "Hold it! Hold it!", bent over at the waist and held his stomach.

"I think what we all need," he told us sincerely and slowly, "is a rest."

We finally reached Carl's front door and his mother met us there in her pajamas and robe. "I'm not surprised, Carl," she told him, "but I am disappointed." To this day I have no idea what that means.

"I'm sorry, Mom," he mumbled sheepishly and staggered off to his bedroom.

Carl had a job at the Kentucky Fried Chicken that had just opened on West Dixie Avenue and I went to check on him there the next day around noon. I ran into my friend, Jim, and asked how Carl was.

"He works a few minutes and then he goes into the walk-in freezer, closes the door and just sits there. What the hell did you guys do last night?"

The Carl and Ellen relationship was truly over and they both moved on.

The old green Ford blew a head gasket on its last outing later that same week, with Dale and me in the car again. It trailed a cloud of black smoke behind us so thick it would've made James Bond proud. Carl parked it in his driveway for the last time. His Dad and a mechanic friend stood and stared at it for a long while, until his Dad finally said, "Probably blew a head gasket."

"Yep," the mechanic agreed, and they walked inside for another beer. The old, green Ford was over and it had moved on, too.

Friday, January 15, 2010

Pity the Poor Kentucky Wildcats Fan

The University of Kentucky Wildcats basketball team seems to be hated by everyone who isn't a Cats fan. That's understandable. Rupp Arena is filled with national championship banners, UK leads the nation in attendance year after year, the Cats lead the NCAA in all-time wins, and so far this season, UK is undefeated. It's easy to hate the Cats.

Maybe those of you who hate Kentucky basketball will find some solace in the fact that we Wildcat fans try really hard not to enjoy it. 

Cat fans are used to being hated, but it is a lot easier to tolerate if you live in the state. In fact, if you live in Kentucky and are surrounded by fellow fans, being despised is a badge of honor. It feels like envy. It's less fun if you live outside the state during basketball season in some place like, well, Chapel Hill, for example.

Any Wildcat loss— I don't care if it's an exhibition game— is devastating to Kentucky fans. But we don't stop there. A win by too few points is an "almost-loss" and we find that pretty depressing, too. This is a perfect fit for John Calipari. He recently reported that, despite the team's 16-and-0 record, they were 9-and-7 by his count.

We refuse to enjoy seven of our first 16 wins because we didn't win by enough. Calipari would argue that we didn't play well enough, but I don't see the difference; I assume if we had played better we would have won by more.

I would list John Calipari as another reason UK is hated, but let's be honest, Kentucky basketball had haters decades before Cal came along. (Billy Gillispie is the only Kentucky coach that opposing fans truly loved.)

I predict that the Wildcats will someday lose a game and our fans, instead of feeling great about starting the season with 20-odd wins, will be depressed. If UK were the only team allowed to play in the NCAA tournament, we'd spend the entire season wondering how we might lose it.

I would love to see a poll of Kentucky fans asking how large a margin the Cats need to make them feel good about a game. I doubt that 10 points is enough. Maybe 20, but 30 would be nice. After UK beat Florida 89-77 last night in Gainesville, it is clear that 12 points isn't sufficient for many of us.

A Twitter friend remarked this morning, "I'd love to buy the hype, but I see a day coming soon when the Cats fail in the last five mins," and then, "I just think we are running on too much luck. Ball handling looked like shit against FL and GA."

OK, we do have a lot of turnovers, but maybe not for a team that plays Kentucky's style of running the court at every opportunity. Regardless, it seems like a team that just beat Billy Donovan on his home court by a dozen could feel better than "lucky." Instead, we fret about turnovers.

(Donovan's haircut is pretty stale, by the way. Doesn't he realize that even Rick Pitino doesn't look like Rick Pitino, anymore?

A Cats blogger added, "Some of us noted during the game that Wall still doesn't look right. He did end up with 19 and seven of those came down the stretch, but I am concerned health wise."

Wall did end up with 19 points, and seven when we needed them most. Guess that was better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.

The biggest concern from UK fans this year is that John Wall will be one-and-done. What in the world will we do next year? I suppose we could consider that our competition didn't get John Wall for even one year, but that would be optimistic and border on feeling good, so we don't. Daniel Orton, not even a starter, blocked five shots that I can remember at Florida, three on the same possession. (If Orton were the chest-pounding, self-congratulating Joakim Noah, he'd have beaten himself to death last night.) Eric Bledsoe dropped 25.

Orton and Bledsoe will probably be around next year, along with several players on this team whose talents have been overshadowed by Wall, Cousins and Patterson. Who knows, maybe Cal will have a good recruiting year to boot; stranger things have happened. But we can't count on any of that, so we need to start fretting about next season right now. Otherwise, a 17-game winning streak would bring us joy. And, that's just not us.

We're not alone in this self-imposed wallowing. I remember Dean Smith saying that a loss at Kentucky was a catastrophe, or something to that effect, but Tar Heel fans weren't like that.  Bullshit.  When the Tar Heels lose a basketball game, this entire town is a different kind of blue. Lose to Duke and they're suicidal. A Tar Heel friend recently texted me that he was "still depressed about the Kentucky loss", two weeks after the game. I've seen the same from my Louisville friends and one who went to UConn.

If you hate us, at least be cheered by the fact that we don't really enjoy having a great team. At least, we try not to.

Search This Blog