Monday, December 15, 2014

Online-ordering follies

The other night (probably Saturday, December 13th, 2014) I ordered some dog-treats online.
They wanted a log-in, so since I use this site often, I provided an account and password long ago. It saves time because an account fills in my info automatically, sometimes even my payment method. —I try to use PayPal.
Their site is a bit difficult to process, but since I’ve done it often, I know what to expect.
I already searched the product from their home-page, and “added-to-cart.”
Now I wanted to order.
To do so, first I gotta log in.
Log-in takes me back to their home-page. From that I can order from “view-cart.”
From “view-cart” I clicked “order,” and that fires up my address and pay thingy, already filled in.
We jumped back-and-forth all over their site, but I successfully ordered. I usually ask “who designed this thing?”
I then print my order, and e-mails from them and PayPal.
The store then sends me an e-mail when they ship. I don’t print that, just keep it until I get my stuff.
It will be shipped UPS, so UPS sends me an e-mail.
They want me to set up an account? Are they kidding? I gotta set up an account just to track a shipment?
PASS! They just wanna sell my account-info to the targeted-marketing firms. After which I get inundated with “dirty-old-man” junk. Scotch your credit debt, get your online doctorate, refinance your mortgage so you can buy that Corvette you always wanted.
I gotta set up an account just to track a shipment?
Forget-it UPS. I ain’t desperate!

Labels:

Sunday, December 14, 2014

Tiger-Tracks again

“These things are becoming a tradition,” said Gary Colvin (“COAL-vin”), like me a retired bus-driver from Regional Transit Service (RTS).
We attended the “Tiger-Tracks” model-train show yesterday (Saturday, December 13th, 2014) at Rochester Institute of Technology. I guess the tiger is its mascot; the show is put on by RIT’s model-railroad club.
It’s a massive show, the best I’ve been to, but I’ve only been to one other.
It’s held in RIT’s field-house, site of basketball and ice-hockey games.
Vendors bring lots of stuff to sell, and model-railroad clubs set up working model-railroads.
Gary is working on his own model-railroad. I can’t get interested; what I prefer is the real thing.
Model-railroads are always a compromise. Curvature is way tighter than reality. It has to be to fit.
To model a real railroad feature, like Horseshoe Curve, you’d need an entire basement, or maybe an airport-hanger.
Model trains also operate unrealistically. A passenger-train on a model-railroad would continuously throw passengers to the floor.
Curves are way tighter than reality, and model-trains negotiate them at improbable speeds.
There also is starting and stopping. A real train starts and stops at a crawl. Model trains suddenly lurch into motion, or lurch to a stop.
A friend and I once measured the scale speed of a passenger-train. It got up to 250 mph, and stopped from that speed in about 100 scale feet.
There also are the trains themselves. Real trains might have 100 or more cars, and be over a mile long. Such trains might get by with only two or three diesel-locomotive units.
With model trains you’re doing good if you can get one locomotive to pull 20 cars. —And don’t ask it to climb a grade, and grades on model-railroads are usually way steeper than reality; in which case a big hand drops from the sky to help the train up the grade.
Model trains have gotten much more realistic than years ago when I last fooled with them as a teenager. That was the time of 250-mph passenger-trains that stopped on a dime.
Trains start and stop more realistically, but still more quickly than reality.
I also saw trains at this show of more than 20 cars. When I was fooling around with them, a single locomotive might max out at seven cars.
There also is individual train-control.
Years ago you varied the current in the track to vary train-speed, plus you could only run one train at a time on a single track.
Put two trains on that track, and both would start and stop at the same time, and if one was faster than the other, it would catch up with the other train, and bunt it in the caboose.
Now the track is fully energized, and the locomotives run by computer-controller. Individual locomotives are signaled to take the current needed to operate as desired. —Which means you can run two trains individually on the same track.
This is much more like reality. In the real world the track isn’t energized. Multiple trains run individually on the same track, although a dispatcher keeps them from smashing into each other.
So model-trains are much more realistic, although still far from reality.
I watched a steam locomotive with synchronized “chuff-chuff” sound. It actually synchronized with side-rod motion, just like a real steam-engine.
The steam-locomotives also emit puffs of smoke from their stacks, but it smells like burnt wax, not coal. And it’s not as dense as what one sees in reality.
Back-and-forth we went, down one aisle then up another, picking through the effluvia.
We are both rather lame, me with a bad knee, and Colvin using a cane. We hobble slowly. I don’t think we covered as much as previous shows.
Gary bought a few small bitsa, plus a tool. He shows me the bitsa, and I have no idea what I’m looking at.
The greatest railroad locomotive ever built! (Photo by Bobbalew.)
I came away from this show a few years ago with the HO GG-1 model pictured.
35 buckaroos; not bad for a working HO model of the greatest railroad locomotive EVER.
It’s not exactly what I wanted. It’s Tuscan (“TUSS-kin;” not “Tucson, Ariz.”) red instead a Brunswick-green, the color I always saw.
And it’s the original gold “cat-whisker” scheme of five gold pinstripes, not the yellow single stripe I usually saw (the second paint-scheme).
I have since bought another HO GG-1, Brunswick-green with the single yellow stripe. But the number-fonts aren’t the same as the letters, and they should be.
At least the proportions are right on both engines. I’ve seen shortened HO GG-1 models made to negotiate tight curvature. I’ve even seen the GG-1 body on E-unit trucks. (Criminy!)
Colvin’s brother-in-law was with us, and seemed fairly impressed. It’s a big show, with a lot of what I call “junk.” Crates of dusty bitsa, and gigantic old Lionel collections.
But I don’t know as it’s junk, if you’re interested in model-railroading.
Chasing the real thing is a five-hour drive for me, but usually it’s productive.
I’m talking about Altoona, PA, where the old Pennsylvania Railroad crossed Allegheny Mountain.
It’s now Norfolk Southern, but still quite busy. Busy enough to cause problems; trains use the same track, and there isn’t much.
There are two railroads that serve the east-coast megalopolis, CSX across New York, and Norfolk Southern across PA. Both move a lot of freight, and now freight from east-coast ports is moving inland.
Be that as it may, model-railroading exists in a dreamworld: lots of track, way more than reality. The world outside a model-railroad seems minuscule; the modelers are more interested in running trains.
I noticed many of those in attendance were old geezers like Gary and me. Still in love with the dreamworld engendered by model trains.
The guy who daycares my dog wondered why I attended this show when I prefer the real thing. “Because I like hanging around with Gary,” I said.

• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs. My stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered fairly well.

Labels:

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

ZOOP!

For the past couple months my iPhone wanted me to upgrade its operating-system to iO8.0.2.
I’ve always let it upgrade, but this time it wouldn’t.
A Smartphone, which my iPhone is, is a miniature computer, so it has an operating-system.
My iPhone is a “5;” I got it about a year-and-half ago as part of a cellphone upgrade to which I was entitled.
For Smart-phones I started with a Motorola Droid-X. It was okay, but it made unwanted “pocket-calls,” and liked to hang.
“Pocket-calls” are unwanted phonecalls made by having the Smartphone in your back pocket, where a bump or sitting could initiate a call.
The Droid-X also liked to make calls on its own while charging on my nightstand; that is, not in my pocket.
It also liked to freeze. The only way to unfreeze it was remove the battery.
My brother in northern DE has an iPhone, I think a “4.”
So do his wife and only son.
He suggested I switch “because the iPhone always works,” and doesn’t make pocket-calls.
So I switched, and that was after my wife died. She’d be amazed I’ve gotten so I can drive it.
Of course, I ain’t doin’ much; nowhere near what that iPhone could do.
But I have my grocery-lists on it, and keep my appointments in its calendar-app.
I also access my Internet weather-site while down in Altoona chasing trains. It can tell me if a deluge is coming.
I’ve also used it as a camera.
Since I got it, there have been at least two operating-system upgrades, maybe three.
One put a security log-in on it. Made sense. Although a friend was mad you had to log in before you could text.
Although with me it wasn’t that much an impediment, since I don’t text much.
A recent upgrade seemed buggy. Once my e-mail turned into a bog-slow mess (my iPhone also gets my e-mail, as did my Droid-X).
And often the touch-screen has froze, usually in my calendar app.
The other day I tried to call my niece’s husband, and it just hung. I never could call him, despite two or three attempts, but he called me, and I got that.
So I figured the new operating-system might fix those bugs, but I couldn’t install it.
I took my iPhone to an Apple guru, but he ended up the same as me.
I then took it to the ‘pyooter-store that set me up, but they couldn’t install it either.
“Fire up iTunes on your computer, and have your computer upgrade it,” they told me. “You’ll be told a system upgrade is available.
Doing it with your computer is way faster than Verizon’s cellphone-towers.” (My cellphone is Verizon.)
Well, I don’t know exactly what is going on, but my iPhone always wanted wi-fi to upgrade. That’s not Verizon’s cell-towers, that’s my wi-fi router.
So I fired up iTunes on this laptop, and plugged in my iPhone. An iPhone operating-system upgrade was available.
All kinds of mysterious and unknowable hoops were displayed about deactivating and restoring your iPhone.
Lost, as usual; I’m not a techie.
But apparently it upgraded.
Now I get to deal with the fallout.
My iPhone has “Siri” (“seer-eee”) and voice-recognition, which save time. And they’re pretty good, unlike my car (which is Microsoft).
They save time compared to fat-fingers on a tiny virtual keyboard.
“Do you wanna dictate?” That is, have Apple monitor whatever I said.
WHAAA.....?
“Cancel;” engage voice-recognition again.
Back to the same “dictate” screen.
For crying out loud, Apple; you’re not giving me a yes-or-no option.
Why in the world would I want Apple to monitor my voice-recognition?
Okay, what are they gonna get? “Broccoli, carrots, Alumni breakfast luncheon.”
Congratulations, Apple, you get junk like this for gumint minions to pore through. “Broccoli and carrots” indicate my terrorist inclinations.
Then the other afternoon I had to call my kennel to reserve dog-boarding. Usually it’s just a Siri command: “Call Ranchanna.”
But this time Siri was lost. “I don’t see ‘Ranch-era’ in your contacts; should I look it up on the Internet instead?”
I tried again: “Call Ranchanna.”
“I don’t see ‘Ranch-era’ in your contacts; should I look it up on the Internet instead?”
Guess I gotta call ‘em from my contact-list.
I fired up my contact-list.
“No contacts.”
Uh-ohhhh..... Looks like that system upgrade lunched my contact-list.
Now what?
I had to revert to the 1950s; look up “Ranchanna” in the white-pages, and call from that.
“Revolutionary and magical.”
How, pray tell, can I get my contact-list back?
Guess I gotta visit the Apple-store.
I remembered Verizon was saving my contacts to “Backup Assistant” in the sky.
I set that up long ago after my first contacts loss.
Now every time I add a contact, Verizon backs it up. It’s auto-magic.
So all I gotta do is download my contact-list from Verizon, and I’m back in business.
There were other reasons to visit the Apple-store. I wasn’t sure I had actually upgraded my phone, and there were other issues.
So I figured I’d visit the Apple-store today (Wednesday, December 10th, 2014).
But yesterday I was doing grocery-shopping in the vicinity of the ‘pyooter-store that sold me the phone.
I figured they got my contact-list from Verizon’s “Backup Assistant.”
Actually they used a machine to take my contact-list off my Droid-X and put it on my iPhone.
That is, they hadn’t used Backup-Assistant, but could.
So now I have my contact-list back.
“You’re saving me a trip to the Apple-store,” I commented.
“Oh, don’t do that! For service you gotta get an appointment, and what they really wanna do is sell you an iPhone-6.”
“I don’t want no iPhone-6 until I’m due for an upgrade,” I said.
So I’m glad I went to my ‘pyooter-store. I guess I’m back in the 21st century.

• The “Motorola Droid-X” operated on Google’s “Android” operating platform. It was made by Motorola.
• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her dearly.
• “‘Pyooter” is computer.
• “Siri” is a voice-recognition personal assistant programmed into the iPhone, an iPhone specialty. I can command it to do all kinds of things.
• A “virtual keyboard” is a keyboard displayed onto the screen. It operates by screen-touch much like a typewriter keyboard.
• The so-called “Alumni” are the union retirees (Local 282, the Rochester local of the nationwide Amalgamated Transit Union) of Regional Transit Service in Rochester, NY. (For 16&1/2 years [1977-1993] I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service [RTS], the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY.) The Alumni was a reaction to the fact Transit management retirees ran roughshod over union retirees — a continuation of the bad vibes at Transit: management versus union. Transit had a club for long-time employees, and I was in it. It was called the “15/25-year Club;” I guess at first the “25-year Club.” But they lowered the employment requirement, and renamed it “15/25-year Club.” The employment requirement was lowered even more; I joined at 10 years. My employ there ended in 1993 with my stroke; and the “Alumni” didn’t exist then. The Alumni is a special club — you have to join.
• “Revolutionary and magical” is what Apple CEO Steve Jobs (now deceased) called the iPhone when it debuted in 2007.
• An “other issue” is the “Find-my-phone” thingy has been turned off.

Sunday, December 07, 2014

“A date that will live in infamy”


“I can still see that oily black pillar of smoke TOWERING above that ship!”

Today, Sunday December 7th, 2014, is the 73rd anniversary of December 7th, 1941, “A date that will live in infamy.”
Those were the words of President Franklin D. Roosevelt following Japan’s attack on the U.S. fleet in Pearl Harbor, the Hawaiian Islands.
It’s also the final day of Medicare open-enrollment, which means I finally stop having my mailbox stuffed by insurance companies entreating me to sign up for a Medicare-Advantage plan.
—What seemed to occur after the election passed.
To me, the Pearl Harbor attack is more important.
It seems like people are forgetting; that WWII is receding into the filmy past.
After all, most on this planet were born well after WWII.
Almost 20 years ago, as I began employ at the Mighty Mezz, I detailed how my parents survived the Depression.
“What’s the Depression?” I was asked.
I think my friend knew what the Depression was, but the Depression was becoming forgotten.
“I can still see that oily black pillar of smoke TOWERING above that ship!”
That’s what I always say to anyone buying a Japanese car.
Someone suggested I try a Mitsubishi car.
“Mitsubishi,” I screamed. “Weren’t they the manufacturers of the Japanese Zero?”
I’ve even owned Jap cars myself. They seem more reliable than a Chevrolet.
A while ago I had a Volkswagen Rabbit.
I showed up for Christmas at the home of a Battle of Britain survivor.
She screamed when she opened her garage-door. “How can you buy a German car after what they did to London?”
A friend told me his mechanic refused to work on Japanese trucks.
He survived Iwo Jima.
WWII veterans are fading fast.
My uncle, my father’s brother, survived the Allied invasion on Anzio in Italy.
He died a few years ago.
He’s buried at Arlington, among thousands of WWII veterans.
And now it’s like WWII didn’t happen.
Now everything is quickly fading: the Pearl Harbor attack, the D-Day invasion, triumph in the Pacific, everything but the Atomic Bombs, which our use of is being called into question.
They killed thousands, but saved thousands more. We didn’t have to invade Japan, where thousands would have died.
What matters now is the price of gasoline, and Reality TV. J-Lo’s latest beau, and who will win the Super-Bowl.
After the Rabbit came a couple Hondas and a Toyota. Now I have a Ford, but it’s essentially a Mazda.
I was once accused of being a “Boomer;” a drain on fat-cats.
But I’m not Post-War Baby-Boom. I’m a war-baby; we were still at war on February 5th, 1944.

• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired about nine years ago. Best job I ever had — I worked there almost 10 years (over 11 if you count my time as a post-stroke unpaid intern [I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I recovered fairly well]). (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where I live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 14 miles away.)

Friday, December 05, 2014

Boy-Scout ruminations

When I was 10 or 11, or whenever you were supposed to transition from Cub-Scouts.....
My father wanted me to join a local Boy-Scout troop established in our church.
My father was hyper-religious. That church was pretty much his doing.
It was Troop 140, an offshoot of our local Boy-Scout troop, #114.
It seemed to be a pack of rebellious ne’er-do-wells, disenchanted with 114 because it was such a do-gooder troop, kind of like Kiwanis or the local Lions Club.
140 had two rebels that were particularly evil, Charley Post and “Applegate.” I don’t remember Applegate’s first name, but it may have been “Tommy.”
Posty and Applegate left 114 because 140 had a Scoutmaster who was also evil. He let them get away with most anything.
I was in dreadful fear of Posty and Applegate. They were threatening me with initiation (gasp) on a camping-trip.
140 held camping-trips in the south-Jersey Pine-Barrens, and I didn’t go, fearing Posty and Applegate.
Initiation was to remove all one’s clothes, then submerge them in a creek or bog. I would be left stark-naked in the Pine-Barrens in the frigid cold.
Is it any wonder I didn’t go?
Much later 140 went along on another foray into the south-Jersey Pine-Barrens to sleep over in a log hunting-lodge.
Much as I didn’t wanna go, my father signed me up.
I hoped the presence of other Boy-Scout troops might temper Posty and Applegate.
Things went fairly well. I was instrumental in stocking our snow-fort with ammo for a giant snowball fight.
Posty thereby declared me initiated. He noted this while defecating pants-down in a bog.
So now I wonder if Posty and Applegate are still alive.
Both probably served in ‘Nam.
I didn’t, because I was “4-F.”
Both were slightly older than me, perhaps three years. Applegate was less fearsome.
My membership with Troop 140 didn’t go past 1957, when our family moved to northern DE. We thereby left my father’s church behind; but he was mad anyway, because they hired a replacement pastor without his approval while we were still there.

• RE: “4-F........” —The gumint had various classifications of suitability for the military-draft in effect back then. “4-F” was totally unsuited for military service, usually for health-reasons. In my case it was a duodenal-ulcer I developed in college. College-attendance was also a reason for draft-deferment; but after college, ‘Nam for you, baby!

Thursday, December 04, 2014

“Them are 200 mph tires!”

To which I could have said: “And where, pray tell, do you expect to do 200 mph?”
This was my niece’s husband, who I try to not give a hard time.
After all, he’s the same guy I gave a hard time to after he bragged his Ford V6 motor was 32-valve.
Last Sunday (November 30th, 2014) I ate out in Rochester (NY) with my niece, her husband and their daughter, and my niece’s mother, with whom they all live.
Her mother is my wife’s brother’s first wife. He’s now on wife number-four, and she’ll probably be his last. My wife’s brother has been slammed this way and that.
A 32-valve V6 is impossible. A V6 with four valves per cylinder is 24 valves. Five valves per cylinder would total 30 valves. —I haven’t seen any, but Yamaha made five valves per cylinder. It was an inline-four motorcycle-engine: 20 valves.
32 valves are only V8s; eight times four valves per cylinder equals 32.
My niece’s husband was so sure of himself, he increased his volume.
But I wasn’t swayed. A 32-valve V6 is too many valves.
My next question could have been how does one get a two-ton four-door sedan to do 200 mph?
It’s motor is strong, but 200 mph? 150 maybe.
Niece’s husband was mad because their GPS led them onto a dirt road going to New York City.
That trip left him with slight damage to one of his $1500 20-inch alloy wheels. Damage my niece and I couldn’t see, but her husband saw it.
He was gonna call in his auto-insurance: Geico.
So I didn’t say anything about the 200-mph tires.
What I did instead was scratch my head over how a GPS could lead you into the boonies.
Going to New York City; for crying out loud!
“I don’t trust ‘em,” I implied. “This kid has to know how he’s going before he starts.”
“But for an unknown location,” my niece said; “GPS is required.”
“In which case I do some research first, and print out Google-maps,” I said. “Google even has ‘street-views;’ that’s better than being led onto a dirt road.”
Years ago, in high-school and college, I used to lust after maximum automotive performance. Ferrari or Lotus for me!
But after well over 50 years of driving in 15 cars, I have fallen back to just wanting the thing to start and run reliably — my paternal grandmother’s values.
Most trips are pillar-to-post. 200 mph is Bonneville Salt Flats.

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her dearly.
• The “Bonneville Salt Flats” are a huge expanse of empty and level desert in northwestern Utah. It has a race-track on it used for speed-trials. The area is big enough and flat enough for record ground-speeds; even higher than the sound-barrier. The area was once part of an inland sea; all that remain are Great Salt Lake, and the salt-flats.

Santy chronicles


Me at age-six with the REAL Santy. (I’m probably asking for a Lionel train.)

As royally messed-up as I am, my wife, who of course is now gone, told me the reason she chased and eventually married me is because of the way I thunk.
For example, I’d walk in our house, after working out at the YMCA, and say: “I have news. Of all the many places on this vast planet Santa Claus could visit, he’s gonna visit our town, tiny West Bloomfield.”
That’s because I had just passed a sign at the Legion-hall up the street that said Santa would visit.
Yrs Trly always had a difficult time with the Santa story.
I believed in Santa, but there were Santas everywhere; multiple Santas on street-corners.
“But they’re not the REAL Santa Claus,” my mother would say. “The REAL Santa is at Gimbels Department-store in Philadelphia.” He’d come in Philadelphia’s Thanksgiving-Day parade on a hook-and-ladder, which got raised to Gimbels’ eighth-floor, then Santa climbed up to enter Gimbels through a window.
Those street-corner Santas were ersatz.
Gimbels, of course, is gone. It liquidated in 1987.
I’m sure there were other real Santas in Philadelphia. I bet Strawbridge & Clothier had one. As did Wanamaker’s and Lit Brothers.
But Gimbels is where my family shopped. Strawbridge’s and Wanamaker’s were upper-crust — perceived as pricy = of-the-Devil.
Plus it was Gimbels’ Thanksgiving-Day parade.
My father worked for additional income at a nearby Sears, and they too had a Santa. But he wasn’t the REAL Santa.
If I’d sat on his lap, I’d tell him the REAL Santa was at Gimbels.
At age-six our family visited Gimbels; to see the REAL Santa Claus, and have our picture taken.
That’s the picture above, and I see I look very ernest.
I have another picture of Santa with my sister, since deceased, but she looks very bored.
Wiggling all over, but at least not crying. Many of the toddlers were crying. “Why am I on the lap of this total stranger? Mommy!”
Santa would visit our town in south Jersey.
But it wasn’t the REAL Santa. It was Charley Philpot (“fill-pot”), chief of the Volunteer Fire-Department.
He’d ride around our town atop our American-LaFrance fire-truck.
Little children would yank his costume beard, and Charley would angrily tell them to stop.
I wasn’t fooled. The REAL Santa was at Gimbels.
My parents revealed the secret when I was seven.
No longer would my sister and I sneak downstairs on Christmas-Eve hoping to see Santa.
My mother always left out a bottle of Pepsi and an orange for Santa.
Next morning they would be gone, proving Santa had been to our house.
“How does Santa get in if we don’t have a fireplace? If he came down our chimney he’d end up in our oil-burner.”

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her dearly. My sister Betty died of cancer in December of 2011.
• A “hook-and-ladder” is a type of fire-truck, specific to carrying ladders. Often hook-and-ladders are truck and steerable trailer. The hook-and-ladder Santa rode in the Thanksgiving-Day parade was a truck-and-trailer. A hook-and-ladder usually had a long mounted ladder that could be raised and extended, and pivoted. Cities (like Philadelphia) had long hook-and-ladders in case of fires in tall buildings. I think the American-LaFrance fire-truck behind the link is a hook-and-ladder, but it’s not truck-and-trailer.

Monday, December 01, 2014

No 89-bazilyun “friends”

The other day I happened to fire up my Facebook, which I hardly ever look at.
Six people I didn’t know were staring at me in Facebook “friend” invitations atop my page.
I was so flummoxed I wrote the following “status-update.”
(Facebook calls ‘em “status-updates.”)
“I see SIX (count ‘em, six) people I’m supposed to Facebook friend.
WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE? I don’t know a single one.
FB is claiming they are friends of people I’ve ‘friended.’
47 “friends” is enough. I don’t want thousands.
My aunt has only one friend, my brother who set her up.
Another guy I graduated college with has no FB ‘friends’ at all. He refuses to join Facebook.
I’d dive myself, but what-the-Hell?”
Apparently these status-updates go out to whatever Facebook “friends” I have.
One, a cousin down near Washington DC, responded as follows:
“It's best to keep the ‘friend list’ to relatives, or those friends from work, school, or your neighborhood that you actually know, or to additional people with whom you share a clear and unequivocal interest that may have developed ‘virtually’ (that is, from an on-line ‘community’). ‘Friends of Friends (and their friends and their friends)’ could lead to what Carl Sagan spoke of: ‘billions and billions.’ Billions of what? Names? Faces? Cat videos? That may be Zuckerberg's ultimate goal. Not mine.”
Apparently the friend-invites are “friends” of people I’ve “friended.” One looked like someone from Transit, and I’m “friends” with a few Transit retirees.
I know none of the others, like they may be “friends” with people who happen to be my “friends.”
Like I should be “friends” with someone I don’t know, just because they are “friends” with people I do know.
I don’t know what Facebook thinks, but one’s self-worth is not a function of how many Facebook “friends” one has.
I know some who have thousands of “friends;” not this kid.
My 84-year-old aunt has only one friend, my brother who set her up.
I’ve always been put off by Facebook; I put up with it.
Sickening ads that were obviously targeted, and once it froze my computer — it hasn’t recently.
Plus it’s always rolling out a new user-interface — I gotta spend hours trying the figger it out.
It also can be ridiculous. 89-bazilyun “congrats.”
I hardly look at it because it’s usually turgidly boring.
I’d shut down my Facebook, if I could see a way.
My sister died about three years ago, yet her Facebook rumbles on. My wife died two-and-a-half years ago, yet still has a Facebook. My friend Dan Gnagy died, but still has a Facebook.
What’s wrong with e-mail? Well, it can’t crunch a cat-video like Facebook can. It’s 20th century.
I keep my Facebook because many of my REAL friends use Facebook to communicate.

• “Transit” equals Regional Transit Service, the public transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY, where I drove transit-bus for 16&1/2 years (1977-1993). My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered fairly well.

Labels: