“It’s a miracle, Bobby”

I don’t know this guy from the Moon! (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—“What I’d like to do now is take your picture,” I said to the gentleman pictured above.
I was at my hairdresser for a trim. I had taken along my dog Killian per usual request. Killian repaired into a side-room to hide and nap.
Suddenly the stranger appeared. He walked in to be my hairdresser’s next appointment. He was completely unknown to me or Killian.
As soon as he sat Killian got up, came out of the side-room, jumped on the sofa, and plopped next to the stranger.
I’m supposed to keep Killian from doing this? As if I had any choice!
I wouldn’t know this stranger in a million years, nor would Killian. Yet PLOP!
Stranger was not the least put off. He started petting Killian.
Trim finished I unholstered my iPhone to take the picture,”
“This isn’t the first time,” I said.
“What I’ll do,” I said; “is post this picture on Facebook.”
“In which case the guy pictured will also get the photo,” my hairdresser interjected. “He has a Facebook, and Facebook does facial recognition. It will appear in his ‘feed’.”
“I didn’t know Facebook was doing facial recognition,” I said.
“You mean the reason all those GIs gave their lives on Normandy’s beaches was so we could do such wonders of technology?”

• “It’s a miracle, Bobby” is something my God-fearing mother used to exclaim regarding anything not having simple explanation. (Bobby is of course me.)

Facebook has become “unfriendly”

It seems to have become a tool for business-promotion.
“‘Like’ us and receive free coupons.”
“Liking” has been perverted. I thought “liking” was to be one-sided. This sounds like a business transaction. Tit-for-tat! Do this and you get a discount.
Facebook has also gotten extraordinarily technical.
A friend described it perfectly.
“It’s hard to navigate,” he said.
“You need to set parameters,” he said.
“Parameters, schmameters,” I thought. “I got better things to do.”
It reminds me of my newspaper’s website, which when I was doing it wasn’t too challenging.
Now it’s so complicated I no longer look at it.
Facebook is the same way.
Every night I get up around 1 a.m. to let my dog out.
When I do I fire up my iPhone to see if I got any e-mails while I was asleep.
I’ve gotten e-mails from people who were up after midnight.
The other night I got one from Facebook.
“See what you missed!” it blared.
Is Suckerberg monitoring my visits?
I clicked the e-mail, and once I got past the solicitation to get “Facebook for iPhone” — I don’t call that “viewing what I missed......”
I opened a gigantic e-mail of pictures and links to every “friend” posting I hadn’t viewed.
It went on-and-on through at least 15 screens. I gave up; I tired of scrolling.
That -a) a friend will soon turn 44, and -b) another friend photographed a pretty sunset (she attached a picture), are interesting, but “Hello Marsha” isn’t.
A lot of what’s on Facebook is like that, drivel.
I admit, I’ve always been mad at Facebook. That’s because they pulled a fast-one to get me to join, and/or, I was ignorant of what I was doing. To use my ignorance to get me to sign up is a fast-one to me: manipulation.
I also don’t like that Facebook is always different every time I visit. I always have to figure it out. They’re always dickering. They can’t leave well-enough alone.
—My brother-in-Boston refuses to get a Facebook. With Facebook your privacy gets tossed out the window.
—Another friend refuses to get Facebook: “I got enough real friends as it is.” True, and Facebook “friends” aren’t the same as real friends. Facebookers brag about how many “friends” they have. Some have thousands. I stopped at 47. My aunt has only one “friend,” my brother who set her up.
—Another friend, who has a Facebook, suggests “Facebook is for those lacking a life.”
I’ve been tempted to end my Facebook.
But I haven’t.
I have actual friends who use Facebook.
Although I’m sick of the ads with some lithesome big-breasted smiling hotty, displaying acres of cleavage, trumpeting mortgage refinance for Seniors (like me).
And ads of pictures I’ve posted on this blog as PhotoBucket links.
I put up with it, but hardly ever look at it.
And you can bet your bottom dollar I never click those ads.
I clicked one once for my high-school yearbook, and now I get e-mails every day suggesting I join: “only 25 bucks gets you instant gratification and meaning for your life.”
I’ve categorized those e-mails as “junk,” but they seem to have some cookie that unjunks them.

• “My newspaper” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger, from where I retired over seven 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.)
• “Suckerberg” is of course Mark Zuckerberg, head-honcho of Facebook.

Hacked?

Facebook, in its infinite wisdom, emailed me an alien computer in Georgia had accessed my Facebook; that is, not this here laptop.
Was it me? Did I recognize the ‘pyooter?
I only access Facebook with this laptop. My SmartPhone always wants a login. That never works! I guess I’m using the wrong password. This laptop has memorized it (I’m permanently logged in). I also have it on a local sticky-note.
They “locked” my Facebook, which meant I couldn’t access it.
Not that I ever do much with Facebook. Were it not for their email, I’d never know they “locked” it.
I was led into a link-generated maze.
Was the ‘pyooter in Georgia me? Well of course not. I haven’t left this area in over a year. Only a couple trips to Altoona, PA, to chase trains. —I’m a railfan, and have been since age-2 (I’m 69).
Ho-hummm! Wherein is my Facebook of any value?
There is no bank-account information or Social-Security number.
My birthday is February 5th, I graduated Brandywine High-School and Houghton College (“HO-tin;” not “how” or “who”), and like Bach and “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” and “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance,” zippity-doo!
Well, I guess someone could steal my Facebook to perform dirty-deeds under my name.
A news-report about such activity surfaced recently.
Some ne’er-do-well issuing terrorist threats under the imprimatur of a stolen Facebook.
In which case the local police SWAT-team storms my house, throws me in jail, and confiscates this laptop.
Until Facebook notifies them my Facebook was hacked. At which point the all-knowing authorities release me saying they’re deeply sorry for tossing me in the slammer.
Since it was my Facebook, I became a “person of interest.” Not charged, but in the slammer. This is America, damn-it, Land of the Free, Home of the Brave!”
“I nearly gave my life on the beaches at Normandy protecting your right to free speech, so you better shut up!”
I don’t even know if “hack” is the right terminology.
Except “hack” was in Facebook’s email link.
Well, back to good old Facebook.
My Facebook was “unlocked” when I clicked I didn’t recognize the ‘pyooter in Georgia.
So back to the silly inanities I have no attraction to; the “burps” and “farts” and “U go gurl.”
The balloon-boobed lassies trumpeting interest-rate reduction.

• “‘Pyooter” is computer.

E-mail to Stevie

RE: Facebook:
You’ll note I’m responding e-mail (a hyphen, for cryin’ out loud), not Facebook.
Facebook has a character-limit, word-limit, whatever! It discriminates against us word-geeks.
Yet it can crunch gigantic picture files, or even more mega-gigundo video files.
A text file, by comparison, is nothing. Yet Facebook has a character-limit. Too many words and it dumps you.
Facebook is a visual medium. Words, and the concepts generated thereby, are anathema.
What I can’t stand is Facebook shoving me into a pigeon-hole. Because I’m 68, I want sexual fulfillment and mortgage refinance. What if I don’t? That makes me reprehensible and disgusting? Or a loser? All because I don’t wanna line the pockets of Suckerberg?
Nice! Facebook promotes social contact. So did my family’s web-site (another hyphen, for cryin’ out loud), which was much more private, and didn’t have hotties or pecker-ads.
Facebook can be made as private as my family’s web-site, but few do it. Post something on Facebook, and it’s out there for all your so-called “friends” to see — as I understand it, and that’s debatable.
Plus Facebook froze my computer. It hasn’t lately, but I’ve heard reports of similar problems.
My sister, who died in December, abhorred Facebook. She had one, but rarely fired it up. It would throw her computer into a tizzy.
Facebook I put up with. I hardly ever fire it up. I only keep mine because -a) actual friends use it, and -b) I don’t know how to dump it.
What I also can’t stand about Facebook is how every time I fire it up, something is different about it.
For example, it used to have a search of people on Facebook; GONE!
I always have to figure out how to drive it.
Sigh. I guess I’m too old. The generation tied to books — in my case magazines.
In other words: WORDS.
My niece in south Florida, in her 40s, thinks Facebook is “cool.”

• “Stevie” is Steve Circh (“Kurch”), an ex-employee of the Canandaigua Messenger newspaper, where he was a page-editor. Steve and I worked together, and are friends.
• The Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper is from where I retired almost seven years ago. Best job I ever had — I worked there almost 10 years. (“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. I live in the rural town of West Bloomfield.)
• “Suckerberg” is Mark Zuckerberg, head-honcho of Facebook.

Suckerberg

I see that Facebook, in its infinite wisdom, without my permission of course, has “upgraded” my Facebook to their silly timeline.
Despite my studiously avoiding to do so.
That is, every time Facebook invited me to “upgrade” to timeline, I steadfastly refused.
My sister-in-law in northern DE, an inveterate Facebook-user, tells me Facebook is doing this to random Facebookers.
I was one of the few Facebookers who hadn’t “upgraded” to timeline.
This was because I’m mad at Facebook. Sick of the targeted ads, their assumption I’m gonna fall for hotties.
The fact I’m 68 makes me ripe for mortgage-refinance.
Um, guys; I own my house free and clear.
Ads want to lower my credit-card interest-rate.
I hate to pop your balloon, Facebook, but I don’t pay credit-card interest.
I pay my credit-card bill in full every month (gasp).
Start charging me interest, and I’m closin’ the account!
The fact I even have a Facebook at all is due to a fast one on their part.
Perhaps five years ago a “friend-invite” appeared in my e-mail.
Okay, I followed it, but “in order to be a Facebook ‘friend,’ you must have a Facebook of your own.”
Little knowing what was happening, I set up a Facebook of my own.
And so began the targeted ads, and Facebook freezing my computer.
If I had any idea this was what I was getting into, I wouldn’t have set up my Facebook.
Supposedly Facebook is better than e-mail.
You can set up secret groups, but essentially it’s wide forking open.
I don’t know exactly how things work, but just about anything I say can be read by anyone, among my Facebook-”friends” that is.
—And I only have 39, not thousands and thousands.
I get friend-invites galore, but I turn ‘em down.
Facebook is always suggesting “friends” for me, but they can just forget it.
I put up with Facebook, primarily because I have too many actual friends that use Facebook to communicate.
I rarely look at my Facebook “home-page.”
Seems like people wake up and immediately post useless drivel to their Facebooks.
“I’m on the can,” etc. —The weather outside their window. Stuff I don’t care about.
And comments to this drivel are stupid and boring. “You go girl,” etc.
The latest navel-pickings. As if I’m supposed to find cogent meaning therein. Would Kierkegaard have a Facebook?
So I put up with Facebook, and they shove their silly timeline down my throat.
So now my Facebook is their dreaded timeline.
It’ll get glanced at as rarely as my old Facebook.

• “Suckerberg” is Mark Zuckerberg, head of Facebook.

Facebook unfriend

Last night (Monday, November 28, 2011) yrs trly successfully reduced his Facebook “friends” list from about 47 down to 35.
35 is not 1,035.
Facebook is something I put up with, a little.
I keep Facebook historied on my browser, so I don’t have to log into it, but I hardly ever look at it.
It’s a royal pain to navigate, and has locked this computer.
The fact I even have a Facebook is due to a fast-one on their part.
An old friend sent me a Facebook “friend” invite, so I responded favorably.
“To respond favorably to a Facebook ‘friend’ invite, you must have a Facebook of your own.”
Okay, so be it, little knowing what I was getting into.
I therefore inadvertently set up a Facebook of my own, wide open to targeted marketing.
My friend has since dumped her Facebook, tired of the vapid comments and targeted marketing.
I’ve been tempted to dump my own, but I let it keep going because so many of my actual friends use Facebook.
But I pay little heed to it — I hardly ever fire up my news-feed.
Facebook has a word-limit.
This makes utterly no sense when you can upload videos with 89 bazilyun bits; way more than a word-post.
I never can say much to anyone.
Just “burp” and “fart” and “belch.”
Obviously critical-thinking is uncrunchable; too many words.
It seems critical-thinking has disappeared for the Facebook crowd, replaced by simple vapidities, like “congrats” and “you go girl.”
If I wrote a cogent dissertation of multiple phrases (I can), it wouldn’t get read by Facebookers.
Multiple words equals boring.
What they want is a few simple words like “congrats” and “you go girl.”
So I had only 47 “friends” in my Facebook friends list, proving I’m a pathetic loser, refused social interchange — must be my politics or something, like I’m a Democrat (Gasp!).
And out of those 47 there were only a couple I actually heard from.
Facebook was always sending me “friend” invites, none of which I responded to.
Why bother? “Friend” someone on Facebook, and never hear from them again.
Like the mysterious Al Repko (“rep-ko”), a classmate in college, who apparently got a Facebook a while ago, friended me, and I haven’t heard from him since.
Or Russell Donovan, a high-school classmate, who asked if I was who he thought I was, I responded favorably, and into the ether he disappeared.
That was almost two years ago, and I haven’t heard from him since.
I sent him a Facebook message, and no answer.
A guy I graduated college with, an actual friend, doesn’t have a Facebook, and refuses to get one.
“Just a few friends is enough,” he tells me. “I don’t need 89 bazilyun Facebook ‘friends.’”
So how does anyone “unfriend” someone, people I never hear from?
“I’ve done it before, but that was years ago.”
I fired up my Facebook tab, and studied the interface.
As usual, totally incomprehensible, accompanied by the usual weirdness of targeted marketing, my age, the fact I’m a railfan, and I like Bach and cross-country skiing.
“Home refinance,” it blared; and “Obama help for the elderly.”
At age 67 I don’t yet consider myself elderly.
Plus Amtrak and model railroading — I don’t even like model railroading.
And the usual lithesome lassies trumpeting people-searches: “I’ve been looking for you!”
I don’t touch that targeted marketing with a ten-foot pole.
Once they even had one my own pictures, stolen from this blog (or PhotoBucket, where I store ‘em).
Plus it wasn’t actually my own photograph. It was a screenshot of someone else’s photograph I’d used as illustration.
Yet since I floated it, it was my photograph.
Weird!
Nothing; I didn’t see an “unfriend” option.
“Well, I guess I gotta Google,” I said.
“Facebook unfriend,” I entered.
A hit; actually quite a few.
How many times have I used Google to figure out how to do something?
“Bring up your friend’s profile-page, click “friends,” and you get an option-menu.
Find ‘unfriend’ and click that.”
This is not how I actually did it.
If I fired up my own friend-list, I’d get the same option menu for each friend.
I didn’t have to bring up their profile-page to “unfriend” them.
So zap! 47 down to 35. At least 35 is better than my aunt in south Jersey, who has only one “friend,” my brother who set her up.
Out of that 35 I have only one “friend” who responds consistently, Paul Long of Danville, VA.
Paul and I used to work at the Messenger newspaper in Canandaigua, although I never knew him at that time.
(I retired from the Messenger over five years ago. It was the best job I ever had — I worked there almost 10 years. A class act.
“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where we 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.)
Paul was sports-editor, and I was sort of an editorial-assistant.
I send Paul a lot, probably more than I would any one else, because I can count on him to read it.
And he usually responds immediately; to everything.
So out of 35 remaining Facebook “friends,” a have only one actual “friend,” or so it seems.

Can they ever leave well-enough alone?

My wife opened her Facebook the other night (Wednesday, September 21, 2011):
“Oh dread,” she said. “They’re at it again.”
I received an e-mail from Facebook the other day: “We're trying out a new feature to reduce the amount of email you receive from Facebook. Starting today, we are turning off most individual email notifications and instead, we'll send you a summary only if there are popular stories you may have missed.”
“Huh?” I said.
“What constitutes a ‘popular story?’ What’s going on behind the scenes?
Can they ever leave well-enough alone?“
I have a Facebook myself, but only because of a fast-one on their part.
I got an e-mail from Facebook regarding an old friend who wanted the “friend” me.
Okay, but “to become a ‘friend’ you must have a Facebook of your own.”
So be it. —I opened a Facebook little knowing what was happening.
“Welcome to Facebook, Grady,” said another old friend I once worked with at the Mighty Mezz.
And so began my torturous relationship with Facebook. That was at least three years ago, maybe four.
I don’t pay much attention to it anymore, perhaps every three weeks or so.
I open it with great fear and trepidation; it has frozen this computer at least twice, perhaps three times.
I’ve been tempted to dump it, but haven’t. Too many of my friends use Facebook to maintain contact.
I have about 89 bazilyun “friend” requests, but I gave up responding some time ago.
“Friend” someone, and never hear from them again.
Or if you do, it’s “burp, fart, or ‘you go girl.’”
And “Congrats to all.”
Facebook also has a character-limit, anathema to a word-generator like me.
Heaven-forbid I spell out a word, like “to” instead of “2.” “Too many characters, naughty-naughty!”
Studied consideration and reason seem verboten; they trample the character-limit.
Another reason I avoid Facebook is because it’s slightly different every time I open it.
I have to blow 20 minutes just figuring out how to drive it.
Which presents the pretense for this blog.
My wife opens her Facebook, and it presents a message about changing things yet again.
Uh-ohhh, here we go again!
Plus I get the e-mail message about Facebook e-mails.
(A Facebook e-mail about reducing Facebook e-mails?)
“NOW WHAT? Can they ever leave well-enough alone?”
If anything I’d say this change is favorable.
Stop the gigantic torrent of useless blathering you have to pore through, which I rarely look at anyway.
Reprehensible! Friends are putting their thoughts and lives on Facebook, and I’m not listening.
Although I’m sure there’s an angle in it somewhere, something to pad Zuckerberg’s pants-pocket.
That’s Mark Zuckerberg, founder and CEO of Facebook.
A friend I graduated college with calls him “Suckerberg......”
My Facebook is showering me with paid ads regarding model trains and AARP home financing, probably because I noted I was a railfan, and my age. (Model-trains are not the real thing.)
My college friend doesn’t have a Facebook.
He abhors it, saying one-or-two friends is enough, not 5,000, or whatever it is.

• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over five years ago. Best job I ever had — I worked there almost 10 years. (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where we 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.)
• “Grady” was my nickname at the Messenger newspaper. See blurb at right.

Facebook grammar RULES!

Something was “affected” on the ABC Evening TV news last night (Tuesday, August 30, 2011).
“Affects” (“effects?”) of Hurricane Irene.
“Is that right?” I asked.
Around-and-around we went at the Mighty Mezz, “affect” or “effect.”
“I think it is,” my wife declared, who majored in English at the same college I attended.
“A hurricane would ‘affect’ things.
‘Effect’ usually has a ‘to’ in front of it.”
“The impression I always had,” I said; “was that ‘affect’ related to affecting personality traits.
That ‘effects’ (‘affects’) how I use the word.”
Years ago I had a similar discussion with a grammar authority at the Mighty Mezz, whose opinions I value, my trusted authority on grammar questions.
He attended the same college as me, fair Houghton College in western New York, although he graduated much later than me.
My wife concurred with him.
“A hurricane can ‘affect’ things.”
I was shocked — shocked and appalled (“uh-Pauled”).
He flew in the face of my impression “affect” related to affecting personality traits.
Cue sonorous blasts from all those who majored in English.
Of course this is no consequence to Facebookers.
What does it matter?
“Affect/effect;” they no what I meant (“mint”).
Proper grammar is for wusses.
Facebook grammar rules!

• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over five years ago. Best job I ever had — I worked there almost 10 years. (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where we 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 15 miles away.)

Facebook can’t accommodate old geezers who want things to make sense

“Obviously, logic is for wusses!” I said to my wife.
“Facebook can’t accommodate people like me who want causality and reason.”
About a month ago I messaged a question to two dear friends via Facebook; they have Facebooks themselves and use them extensively.
One used to work at the Mighty Mezz as a photographer.
Her husband works at MacShack, and set up this here computer I’m using, an Apple MacBook Pro laptop.
Facebook tells me they’ve responded, but can I get their responses? —And I value their opinions.
My Facebook profile-page has a “Message” tab. I clicked it, and was shown my entire message-chain, which goes back eons.
It included earlier responses these people had rendered, but not their most recent responses.
NOW WHAT?
Facebook is always doing this, that is, not making sense.
I looked at my wife’s Facebook on her own computer. It has the same “new message” tab I have, but also a message-tab on the left I don’t have.
At which point some pimply mohawk-haired techie from Facebook weighs in and tells me to change my security preferences.
Um, GUYS; I had that tab before, and it disappeared!
And I haven’t touched those preferences since I set up my Facebook years ago.
Which leads me to conclude — awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity — you guys vaporized it yourselves; or more likely, some change you did inadvertently vaporized it.
Every time I fire up Facebook it’s slightly different.
Used to be I could search graduates of my high-school class, but no longer.
Similarly, my college class, also no longer.
And every time I fire up Facebook, it’s suggesting “friends.”
PASS! I’ve given up! Make a new “friend,” and never hear from them again.
I don’t need 5,000 “friends” I never hear from.
But I could use the advice of my two dear friends, people who are actually friends, as opposed to Facebook “friends.”
But Facebook won’t allow it, or has constructed some kind of unfathomable wall I hafta jump.

• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over five years ago. Best job I ever had — I worked there almost 10 years. (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where we 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 15 miles away.)
• “MacShack,” east of Rochester, NY, is where I’ve purchased most of my computer equipment over the years, and it does repairs. It’s a purveyor of Apple Macintosh computer equipment, but not an official Apple store.

Facebook “friends”

My Facebook is telling me I’m “friends” with four fellow graduates of Brandywine High School in northern Delaware. (Class of ’62.)
One is Russell Donovan, who graduated in my class.
One is Lynne Huntsberger Killheffer, who I dated, two classes after me.
The others are my younger brother and baby-sister, who also attended Brandywine, both much later than me.
Funny; my sister-in-Fort Lauderdale, two classes behind me (she graduated with Huntsberger) is not mentioned. My sister must not have Brandywine in her profile, yet we are “friends.”
My blowhard brother-in-Boston, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, has nothing to do with Facebook. (He also is a Brandywine grad.)
Probably a security-concern, which I more-or-less agree with.
I’ve been tempted to dive from Facebook, but haven’t. People I know use it for communication. E-mail is better, but Facebook is more open.
Huntsberger is a result of her own fishing expedition, as is Donovan.
But the other two aren’t. They’re siblings — of course they graduated Brandywine. They lived in the same house I did.
The import of this, of course, is for me to find more Brandywine grads.
No thanks.
Seems to me some time ago Facebook had a search-engine for finding other Brandywine grads on Facebook.
I tried it, making no “friends.”
Most were classes way after me — the school still exists, I guess.
I graduated almost 50 years ago; the third class to do so at Brandywine. The school was brand-new at that time, a counter to the coming post-war baby-boom.
The few from my class were people I never knew, socialites. —I’m not a socialite.
What few I might be interested in had long ago disappeared.
I hung around with some from the Class of ’64.
The only ’64 grad on Facebook was Huntsberger, who to me I thought had disappeared, but she fished me out.
I probably showed as a Brandywine grad in a Facebook search, so she struck up the old acquaintance.
“One of the few who I could make laugh,” I said, utterly surprised.
“Thank goodness we never married,” I said. “I was a total mess.”
I’m a graduate of the Hilda Walton school of sexual relations.
All boys are uncouth scumbags, totally unworthy of girls.
Hilda Walton was my Sunday-School Superintendent, and next-door neighbor. A God-fearing Christian zealot.
It took decades for me to see Hilda was totally wrong, that girls might actually like boys.
So Facebook is telling me I’m “friends” with four fellow Brandywine grads.
Congratulations, Facebook.
Two count, and two don’t. The last two are siblings.

Whazzubbb.........

“How come every time I fire up my Google search-window I get an invitation to install the RoadRunner toolbar?” I asked.
“I don’t want the RoadRunner toolbar. That would just be another thing to waste time on, trying to figure it out,” I said.
“There it is again!” I exclaimed. “What are they trying to do; shove this down my throat?
Everything was fine the way it was,” I said. “I could successfully drive what I had. I don’t have time to figure out something new.”
This reminds of a recent computer foray.
A deal where a search-result was always something other than what I asked for — usually an invitation to buy and download something.
I was trying to get the IRS Tax-Tables, a PDF, and kept getting run around in circles.
“Available free from Tubbie-Tax®; only 89 bazilyun dollars. Have your credit-card ready.”
Like the powers-that-be had taken over my computer from afar.
I get this with Google.
A while ago Googling something was wonderful, but now they seem to be power-crazed.
When I Google-search I get ads — more likely than viable results.
I wonder how reliable Google is...... I guess competitors have sprung up.
It’s like Google is trying to take over the computer-world, now that Microsoft seems in decline.
Which would be okay, if Google were as helpful as it was.
Google something now, and you get ads — things shoved down your throat.
I still use Google, but I’m wary.
It’s like my frustration with Facebook, a nice idea gone awry.
My family’s web-site was also social-media, but much less frustrating than Facebook.
Every time I fire up Facebook its interface is slightly different.
It’s like the tech-mavens at Facebook had nothing better to do, so they dickered something.
A while ago they had a search of all graduates from my high-school on Facebook, but I can’t find it any longer.
Just recently I fired up my only Facebook “friend” from my high-school class — who I never hear from.
My intent was to send him a message hoping he might know the e-mail of the contact who always arranges our high-school reunions.
But I didn’t see a message-function. I had to post on his “wall.”
And then you’re always running up against Facebook’s word-limit, anathema to a word-generator like me.
(It’s ironic they can fly giant video-files; yet excess words, which don’t amount to much, are verboten.)
What if I can’t make my question short enough?
Thank you Facebook, for tossing the message-function. (Or did they? Now, four days later, I see it.)
It isn’t social-media if all I can say is “You go girl,” or “burp.”
And Facebook is unrealistic.
Its members are always perfect and without fault.
Which might be okay if I actually heard from anyone.
I have 42 “friends;” not the record hundreds. (I got an invite from one with over 1,000!)
I have many friend-invites, but I figure why bother?
I’ve accepted a few, and never heard from them again.

• “RoadRunner” is our Internet-Service-Provider (“ISP”), via Time-Warner cable.
• “Tubbie-Tax” is of course Turbo-Tax.

Carrie and Facebook

“Well, here goes,” I said to myself, as I sent Carrie a Facebook “friend” invite.
Carrie was one of many people who’ve sent me Facebook “friend” invites I’ve avoided.
That’s mainly because I don’t do much with Facebook. I don’t dare. It’s locked this machine, and generally fights me.
Too many unknowns are going on in the background, so I never know what it’s doing.
Facebook is a nice idea, but it never worked as well as my family’s web-site through MyFamily.com.
Facebook is similar, although with Facebook I have 42 “friends.”
With MyFamily I had only eight, just immediate family-members.
Carrie has over 900 Facebook friends.
That’s the most I’ve ever seen.
I thought my brother-in-Delaware was in uncharted territory with over 400.
At the other extreme, I have an aunt in south Jersey with only one friend, and that’s my brother-in-Delaware, who set up her Facebook.
The fact I even have a Facebook is due to a fast-one on their part.
I got a Facebook e-mail friend invite from an old friend. So I responded — couldn’t hurt.
“To accept a Facebook friend-invite, you must have a Facebook of your own.”
I should have backed away.
Now I can’t; there’s no exit.
All I can do is not look at it, which I don’t.
Maybe once every two weeks or so.
I have Facebook friends who look even less; some hardly ever.
Yet I have “friend” invites galore.
What’s the sense of my responding favorably, when they never fiddle it?
Carrie was a photojournalist for MessengerPost Media, apparently during the final years of my employ there, and after I retired. (I retired five years ago.)
I never actually knew her, although I flew many of her pictures on the MessengerPost web-site, which I was doing before I retired.
Facebook asked me to “friend” numerous ex Messenger employees. I had to “unfriend” some.
I was getting bombarded with social-interchange I had no interest in.
Plus Facebook can’t seem to handle more than a few words. That scotches word-generators like me.
Carrie is pushing 36; that’s way younger than me — I’m 67.
1975; that means she was born nine years after I graduated college.
She gets to harvest the fruits of our profligacy: an atmosphere fouled by hydrocarbons.
And global-warming; possibly rising oceans.
I wonder if she gets to wear a breathing-pack? By then I’ll be gone.
I’m not actually a Boomer; born during the closing years of WWII.
But right at the cusp of the post-war Baby-Boom; the people that sought redemption and life-meaning by burning gasoline and coal.
So now Carrie is out on her own, no longer employed by the Messenger.
I hope she makes it as a self-employed professional photographer. I tried long ago, and gave up.
I know how photography can become drudgery, babies and wedding-shoots. It’s not the redemption it could be.
I gave it up because buyers didn’t seem to care what I was doing — what I thought looked good didn’t matter to buyers.
I also gave it up because I felt I didn’t have “the eye,” the ability to imagine how a picture would look when printed.
I don’t think Carrie has that problem. I know I was always flying her stuff on the MessengerPost web-site. Her “eye” seems much better than mine.
The ability to cut out distractions, like a water-tower or wires, poles exiting people’s heads, etc.
And color-temperature; the fact a camera doesn’t do what the mind does, like color-correct a snow-image.
I developed some of that through experience, but still feel like I’m shooting “and see how it looks.”
Some of my photographs sold nationally long ago, and I do a photo-calendar for a bed-and-breakfast.
But that calendar is by default.
They liked what I had, so asked if I could do a calendar. It wasn’t a “sale” on my part.
So now I’m friends with Carrie, her 940th, and my 42nd.
This was prompted by the old Facebook waazoo; that I couldn’t comment on one of her pictures without being a “friend.”
Plus, what little I knew of Carrie encouraged it. I sure flew enough of her pictures on the MessengerPost web-site.

• “MessengerPost Media” is a result of buyout of nine suburban Post weekly newspapers, by the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, where I worked almost 10 years following my stroke. (I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered.) —It was the best job I ever had. (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city to the east nearby where we 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 15 miles away. —We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester.) —MessengerPost Media had a web-site, and toward the end of my employ I was doing it.

Four incidents

— 1) Last night (Saturday. January 1, 2011; New Years Day) I happened to notice the button for voice-activated calling from my Verizon Droid-X smartphone.
Okay, experiment-time; I’ll try it.
I turned on my wife’s cellphone, so I could call it.
“Say a command,” a disembodied female voice said.
“Call Linda,” I said.
“Did you say ‘call Adam?’” my phone asked.
“What? This happened the other night. Since when does ‘Linda’ sound like ‘Adam?’”
Adam is my baby-sister’s oldest son in Virginia.
He’s in college.
My phone called him the other night, which I managed to cut off before he answered.
Choices were displayed on the screen; Linda or Adam.
I quickly fingered the Linda dialog, since it appears my phone would call Adam by default, if I didn’t act fast enough.
It called my wife’s cellphone.
Progress, I guess.
We’ll try it again doing it the same way my friend Gary Colvin (“Coal-vin”) does with the Bluetooth cellphone in his car.
“Call Linda,” I said.
“Did you say ‘call Adam?’”
“No!” I shouted.
“Did you say call Colvin?”
Again, “No!”
“Unable to understand your command; please try again. Be-boop!”
“Call Linda,” I shouted again.
“Did you say ‘call Linda?’”
“Yes!” I shouted.
My cellphone called my wife’s cellphone.
Okay, I guess I can turn off my wife’s cellphone, but it called my sister-in-law in Florida instead.
“Hello,” she answered. “Is this Bob?”
A call from Linda’s cellphone shows up on the receiving phone via caller-ID. and since it was a male voice, she figured it was me.
“I apparently called your cellphone by mistake. I was trying to shut off my wife’s phone.”
“There are no such things as mistakes,” she said. “That’s the first rule of psychiatry.”
“That may be,” I said; “but I’d label an unintended phonecall a mistake.
Apparently Linda has your number in here as a speed-dial, and I must have hit that.”
(We ascertained later this made no sense, since her speed-dial was 21.)
I hung up.
Back to trying to shut my wife’s phone off, but this time it called AirTran Airways.
I could hear snippets of a machine response.
“Yada-yada-yada-yada. Please hold during the silence. Boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka.”
“Is it even possible for a stroke-survivor like me to shut this thing off?” I cried.
I get these hairballs all the time — I’m frequently reminded I don’t have all my marbles.
I walked away, and let my wife shut off her phone.
“Time for a real person,” I said.
—2) The other day (Thursday, December 30, 2010) we had a medical appointment at Strong Hospital in Rochester.
It entailed parking in their parking-garage.
Doing so, you’re issued a ticket as you pull in.
It has the time you pulled in recorded onto a magnetic stripe.
Parking there costs a fortune, but with an appointment you’re issued another ticket that vastly discounts your parking-cost, like down from $5 to $1.
The hospital has computerized gizmos inside that can process your parking-fee in advance.
There’s a drill to it, I guess, lest the machine get confused.
You’re supposed to insert your original parking-ticket first, then your discount ticket.
I would leave by myself, and return later, no parking, to pick up my wife.
So I had both tickets, and had been told the discount ticket was a $1 parking-ticket.
I inserted that ticket first, thereby committing a cardinal sin.
It spit it back out, so I inserted my original parking-ticket.
“$5.”
Insert discount ticket.
“$1.”
I inserted a dollar-bill.
Nothing happened thereafter, although I may have not waited long enough (a minute) for return of the original parking stub. It’s rather slow, and I had the discount ticket, which is what I thought the exit-machines wanted.
I inserted the discount ticket in the exit-machine.
Nothing happened, except I noticed my discount ticket had been spit back out.
“Please turn ticket,” the display said.
Okay, I thought. Happened before.
I flipped the ticket.
BOINK; “Please turn ticket.”
I ended up trying four different ways.
Every time, BOINK!
Finally, “I give up.” I drove over to an adjacent exit-booth manned by a human.
“I guess it doesn’t like my ticket,” I said. (He had been watching.)
“That’s because it’s the wrong ticket,” the attendant said. “Do you have your original parking-ticket?”
“The machine inside took it,” I said. “It didn’t return it.”
“Well, sometimes that happens,” the guy said; “but I can deal with that.
Now I need your discount ticket.
$1,” he said.
“I just gave the machine inside a dollar,” I said.
The exit-gate lifted, and “Thank you sir.” He shooed me through.
—3) The other night (probably Friday, December 31, 2010) the ABC national TV news reported Facebook had passed Google for Internet hits.
Like social-networking has become more important than facts.
“Not me,” my wife said. “I’m searching Google all-the-time, and hardly look at Facebook at all.”
“Me neither,” I said. “I can’t risk it. Facebook’s locked my machine.
Of course, we’re both old geezers,” I said.
“We’re word-people, anathema to the younger set.
Enslaved to complete sentences with modifiers.
Not inclined to share every burp and fart with others in one-word responses.”
And on the rare occasions I fire up my Facebook, it’s always slightly different.
I always have to figure it out.
The fact I even have a Facebook is due to a Facebook fast-one.
I got an e-mail from Facebook saying an old friend wished I’d “friend” her.
So I did, thereby setting up a Facebook of my own.
I wasn’t sure I wanted it, but I could see no exit.
I also am tired of Facebook’s many “improvements;” which strike me as degrades.
Facebook is a trap; I only have 40 friends — not the 400+ Facebook-friends my younger brother has.
My aunt in south Jersey has only one friend, that same younger brother, who set her’s up.
Only one friend is probably a record.
“I guess we’re not much into socializing,” my wife observed.
“Or what passes as socializing in the future,” I added. “Like ‘You go girl,’ and ‘way 2 go :-)’”
Actress Betty White had it best.
She’s in her 80s.
“I’ve finally managed to figure out Facebook,” she says; “and I think it’s a waste of time.”
—4) The other morning (probably yesterday, Saturday, January 1, 2011) I fired up this here computer, and “Where’s my desktop? I’m getting the purple Aurora Borealis display Apple resorts to.”

Photo by BobbaLew.

My desktop-picture (“Wallpaper;” for youz Windoze users) is good old GG1 (“Jee-Jee-ONE;” I only say that because a friend was mispronouncing it “Jee-Jee-Eye”) #4896, as illustrated at left.
The Pennsylvania Railroad’s GG1 electric locomotive is the greatest railroad locomotive of all time.
And 4896 is the only one I’ve ever been through.
I saw it many times, but only got this one photograph.
We poked around.
A desktop-picture was no longer selected — no idea why.
We reinstalled GG1 #4896 as my desktop picture.
Restart. VIOLA; there’s GG1 #4896.
“Sometimes my PC does that; defaults the desktop-picture,” my wife said.
“I never know why. —Sometimes it loses everything.”
(My wife drives a Windows PC; I drive a MAC.)

• My wife of 43 years is “Linda.”
• “Bob” is me, Bob Hughes; “Bobbalew.”
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, which killed part of my brain; although I recovered quite well from it. Most wouldn’t know I had a stroke — I can pass as normal.
• RE: “We’re both old geezers.....” —As of today, January 2, 2011, my wife is 67. —I myself will turn 67 in about a month.
• “Windoze” is Microsoft “Windows,” which many Apple-users think is inferior to the Apple computer operating-systems.

Another Facebook fast-one

Last night (Wednesday, December 29, 2010) the ABC national TV news was trumpeting the sudden triumph of Facebook.
As one of the significant things that occurred in 2010.

Ugh!

Clips were shown of Diane Sawyer interviewing cherubic Facebook founder bubbly Mark Zuckerberg (at left), recounting that Facebook now had 500 million members.
Well, consider me a disgruntled member of those 500 million. Facebook has locked my machine, and every time I fire it up, which isn’t often (too risky), something is different.
Not to mention all those silly ads to the right, to find who’s looking for you (always a voluptuous tart), or aimed at my interests, in my case railroading.
More exasperating are all the ads for reverse mortgages, and Medicare-Advantage plans, supposedly of interest to someone my age.
More ridiculous are all the ads that post photos I once posted to blogs, like the mere screenshot above.
I never click any of them. I ain’t havin’ some hacker steal my information.
I used to post Facebook links to these here blogs, but stopped when those links no longer worked.
I had a question I wanted to ask an old friend, and figured it made more sense to post to her Facebook than e-mail.
She’s more likely to look at her Facebook.
So I fired up Facebook; first time in about two weeks.
My friend had “updated” to Facebook’s “new profile” page; so did I want to?
The implication, I thought (stupid me), was do I wanna look at my friend’s new Facebook.
Well, I guess I have to.
BOOM; suddenly my own Facebook is “updated” to Facebook’s “new profile” page.
A Facebook fast-one; not the first time.
The fact I even have a Facebook at all is a result of a Facebook fast-one.
I got an e-mail from Facebook suggesting my old friend wanted to “friend” me.
Okay, click!
BOOM; welcome to Facebook.
Suddenly I had a Facebook of my own; not particularly wanted, but I couldn’t see a plug to pull.
Far be it Facebook supply an exit; they might not have 500 million members.
I perused my new Facebook profile. It had me living in Bloomfield, and originally from West Bloomfield.
Well, that is all wrong.
I live in West Bloomfield, and am originally from south Jersey.
Their incorrect answers were responses to queries which Facebook has since screwed up.
I see an “edit profile” button, so I click that.
Residence questions are presented, so I overwrite “West Bloomfield” to “Erlton, NJ.”
“Save changes.”
BOOM; the origin question went blank.
“View profile.”
“Add origin location” is a link.
I click it, crank in “Erlton, NJ,” but “save changes” is dead; grayed out.
I try again. Still dead.
Well, I ain’t interested in tryin’ to drive around all your glitches, Facebook, so I guess the error stands.
Sorry cherub-boy; every time you “improve” something, ya make things worse. I shut off and went to bed.

• RE: “In my case railroading......” —I am a railfan, and have been since I was a child.
• We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester. Adjacent is the rural town of East Bloomfield, and the village of Bloomfield is within it.
• “Erlton” (‘EARL-tin’) is the small suburb of Philadelphia in south Jersey where I lived until I was 13. Erlton was founded in the ‘30s, named after its developer, whose name was Earl. Erlton was north of Haddonfield, an old Revolutionary town.

Become a Facebook “friend” and disappear

I have 40 Facebook “friends.”
My Facebook is a result of a Facebook fast-one, or so I think.
An old friend invited me to be a Facebook “friend;” I got an e-mail.
“But to become a friend, you have to have a Facebook of your own.”
Well okay, I guess. It’s just an invite from an old friend, little knowing I was thereby opening up myself to a wide audience on the Internet.
“Welcome to Facebook,” another friend said.
“WHAT? What’s going on here?”
Um, well okay; I guess it’s not worth walking away from.
But I feel like I got hornswoggled.
So began Facebook; an app that locks my machine occasionally, and no longer posts my blogs (e.g. this) as working links.
Facebook suggested a slew of potential “friends,” most of whom previously worked at the Canandaigua Daily Messenger newspaper during my employ.
I retired about five years ago.
I kept getting “posts” by all these people — posts of little import, like “I just belched,” and “my back hurts.”
Finally, I “unfriended” quite a few, but I keep getting “friend” invites.
People I drove bus with, people I went to college and high-school with, old newspaper employees.
I’ve “befriended” a few, but now it’s why bother?
“Befriend” someone, and never hear from them again.
There is one I hear from a lot, but that’s only one out of 40.
There are a few others I occasionally hear from, but most have disappeared.
500 million Facebooks, or whatever it is.
How many of those millions have disappeared?
I might glance at it once a week, but I feel e-mail is much better.
Although my e-mails often go into the ozone.
I never click the Facebook ads on the right — I don’t trust ‘em. Phishing for my identity information.
And I never “like” anything. (Like some business — Facebook seems to have been taken over by business.)
And what sense does it make to be the first to “like” some screenshot I uploaded to PhotoBucket?
For cryin’ out loud, Facebook!

• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that. After that I worked for the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired almost five years ago. Best job I ever had. (“Canandaigua” [“cannon-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where we 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 15 miles away.)
• “PhotoBucket” is the image site where I post and store my picture-files.

I don’t need it

Yrs trly has given up on Facebook.
I suppose this makes me an old fogey.
This is despite many of my friends communicating via Facebook.
One friend suggested the only time he fired up Facebook was when he was bored.
I get Facebook “friend” invites all the time, respond favorably to a few, and never hear from them again.
Do they fire up Facebook at all?
I gave up because Facebook changed something.
I was posting blog-links to Facebook as “notes.”
They worked fine for a while, but not long ago they stopped working.
Click a blog-link now and it goes to “page not found.”
I considered contacting Facebook, but a Facebook “friend” I hear from fairly often suggested I don’t.
He made sense.
Facebook is always dorking around.
Every time I fire it up something is slightly different.
It looks the same, but something is different in the background.
Like how it works.
And it seems every so-called “improvement” they make screws up something.
So his advice was I not contact them lest they screw something up.
So I walked away.
No more blog-links as Facebook notes.
My Facebook Internet tab is still on, but I rarely fire it up.
Posting a blog-link note was reason to look at “home.”
Usually just a few posts from friends that use Facebook.
And comments thereto; usually short and torpid.
My family had a web-site I walked away from too, but only because one family-member was continually badmouthing me.
My family’s web-site was much more active than Facebook.
And private.
You had to be a member; you had to be invited.
Facebook is the same, but there you have 89 bazilyun members (“friends”).
My family’s web-site (based in Utah) tried to upgrade years ago, but everyone rebelled.
What was wrong with the old way of doing things?
It worked fine.
That “improvement” may have crashed.
I used to have an Internet e-mail.
They upgraded it, making it much worse.
Mainly bog-slow.
I ended up walking away from it, back to my old RoadRunner e-mail, which I still had — and still use.

• “RoadRunner” is Time-Warner’s Internet-service-provider, via cable. I use RoadRunner.

Monkeyshines

The other night (Sunday, August 22, 2010) I fired up Facebook.
Probably for the first time in over a week, since that’s about all I ever look at it.
Which is apparently more than many of my Facebook “friends.” —My aunt in south Jersey has only one “friend,” my brother, who set up her Facebook.
Probably the record.
My intent was to delete a slew of Facebook “notes.”
All my notes are blog-links; sometimes MPNnow, but mostly BlogSpot.
MPNnow and BlogSpot get pretty much the same blog; only explaining footnotes added for BlogSpot’s wider audience.
As you know, I blog something most every day, so my Facebook notes were piling up.
Every time I fire up Facebook, it’s slightly different.
Lessee, “view notes;” hmmmnnnnnn, no delete.
Where’s my note list?
There’s always some tiny hidden link on here, but I don’t see it.
Try this, try that; nothing.
I poke around; I’m getting nowhere.
My wife walks in.
“Must be they decided to end the delete-note option. Probably no one was doing it.”
“Great. I got 89 bazilyun notes, and I can’t get rid of ‘em,” I say.
This ain’t the first time Facebook has shoved something down my throat. My even having a Facebook is thanks to a fast one on their part.
Finally I see an “edit-note” option; it has “delete.”
“Ya mean I gotta fire up each and every note to delete it?
This ain’t the way it was last time!”
That Facebook is always dorking around with things.
They can’t leave well enough alone.
It’s different each time I open it.

• “MPNnow” is the Messenger Post Newspapers’ web-site. I post pretty much the same blogs on it. (It has a blog page).) —For almost ten years I worked at Messenger Post Newspapers, mainly the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over four years ago. Best job I ever had. (“Canandaigua” [“cannon-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where we 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 15 miles away.) The Post newspapers are (were) suburban weekly newspapers around Rochester bought by the Messenger when their publisher retired.
• My wife of 42+ years is “Linda.” Like me she’s retired, but she worked part-time at the West Bloomfield post-office. She retired as a computer programmer. She no longer works at the post-office.

What ho.......

Matt Shaw.

Blocchi.

The estimable and supposedly fabulous Facebook, which I don’t pay much attention to — I have better things to do — has blessed me with two friend invites, John Blocchi (“block-eee”), and Matt Shaw.
Both Blocchi and Matt are members of Local 282, the Rochester division of the nationwide Amalgamated Transit Union (“What’s ‘Ah-Two?’”), my old bus-union at Regional Transit.
For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS), the public transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY. While there I belonged to the Amalgamated Transit Union. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
Both Blocchi and Matt are mechanics. In my humble opinion the bus-mechanics were much more of a union than the bus-drivers.
To me this was due to circumstance.
The mechanics had pretty much the same hours, and were together in the same building.
The bus-drivers had different hours, and were away from the Property driving bus.
If something that would involve the Union occurred, it spread like wildfire among the mechanics.
Word didn’t spread like that among the drivers.
News circulation might take months, if ever.
Drivers only congregated in the Drivers’ Room, which was Company property, heavily monitored by management.
The Union’s input was a tiny bulletin-board in a dark corridor.
That Drivers’ Room was a den of extravagant rumor and innuendo.
So little Union contact was taking place, untruths were triumphant.
And if Union officials dared show up, management watched them like hawks.
To my mind both Matt and Blocchi were computer-savvy, perhaps Matt even more than Blocchi.
Blocchi was our Local’s Recording-Secretary; always on the dais with his laptop.
Other union officials might be present, e.g. the Union Prez, but without computers.
Matt specced a complete computer-system to bring our Local kicking and screaming into the new century, but it was voted down.
Partially because some noisy blowhard suggested his sister-in-law in Washington DC could get a similar system for peanuts.
Triumph of ignorance and stupidity.
Bus-drivers seem to do that — defeat themselves.
282 is still in the Dark Ages.
Expenses are still hand-recorded in a book.
I don’t consider myself that computer-savvy, but at least our accounting is in this machine.
My having a Facebook is something I put up with.
To me it’s the result of a Facebook fast-one.
Facebook e-mailed me that an old friend wished to Facebook “friend” me.
“To become a ‘friend’ you must have a Facebook of your own.”
“Well okay,” I thought, little knowing what I was getting into.
I thereby set up a Facebook of my own. It suggested various “friends,” so I made a few.
One welcomed me to Facebook.
If I’d had any idea what was happening. I woulda used an alias. —I don’t want my name spilling all over the Internet.
So my Facebook profile is quite normal looking.

Photo by BobbaLew.

The only “alias” I’ve been able to use is my profile-picture.
It’s not me; it’s the American Flag.
Facebook is nice, a social networking site; but my family’s web-site is much better.
For one thing it’s much more private — you have to be invited to join.
I suppose Facebook could do the same, by limiting “friends” to your family.
Better yet is that my family’s web-site notified of recent posts — it could take me directly to them.
Not Facebook. You have to pore through mountains of useless garbage just to find anything of interest.
And what’s posted is often boring and/or laughable; “I just burped; I hereby scratch my armpits.”
What a pain I gotta weed through all that junk to find anything of interest.
At least my family’s web-site didn’t engender garbage.
Facebook has also locked my machine; sometimes I hafta force-quit my browser.
It seems to be more stable lately; and there are all those silly ads on the right of some buxom hottie suggesting you get your “public profile.”
Plus ads aimed at stuff in your interest profile.
SPAM ALERT!
There are only two reasons I haven’t walked away from Facebook:
—1) I don’t see any way of dumping it, and
—2) I have too many friends that communicate by Facebook.

• “What’s ‘ah-two?’” is something my mother asked seeing my ATU (Amalgamated Transit Union) button.

What hath Facebook wrought?

Tehachapi (“tuh-HATCH-uh-PEE”) Loop.
(Tehachapi Loop, in south-central California, is probably the most famous railfan pilgrimage stop on the entire planet. It’s the Southern Pacific Railroad’s climb of the Tehachapi Mountains, at the south end of the San Joaquin valley; thought to never be possible. It’s an engineering triumph, partly because it includes a loop over itself. Santa Fe Railroad has trackage-rights.)
—I’ve seen it.

I uploaded a photograph (the one above) to PhotoBucket®.
PhotoBucket is where I store all my image-files.
The photo you see is from PhotoBucket; the image-source is PhotoBucket.
My PhotoBucket account is nothing special. I ain’t storing artsy pictures by myself.
I only went with PhotoBucket because my BlogSpot picture storage maxxed out — I think it was Picassa.
Nothing artsy there either.
Just illustrations for these blogs.
Quite often they aren’t even my pictures; just screenshots of stock photos by unnamed photographers available for free use.
Upload complete; now name photograph.
I click that, but what do I see?
“Link this photograph to your Facebook.
Be first to ‘like’ it.”
For cryin’ out loud!
Facebook is barging into everything.
Reports are on the news about web-sites linking to Facebook to grab your profile information.
Facebook claims you can avoid that by making your profile information private.
All you hafta be is a techno-maven.
I have a Facebook myself, although I consider it a “fast-one” on Facebook’s part.
I received an e-mail “friend” invite from another Facebook user.
I responded, not knowing I was thereby setting up a Facebook of my own.
I’d like to kill it — I don’t pay it much heed anyway — and it has locked my computer.
But I can’t — at least, not that I can see.
About all I can do is walk away from it.
I keep it open because I have friends who use Facebook.
Makes a lotta sense.
Be first to “like” your own photograph.
And it wasn’t even mine.
It’s a screenshot of a Wikipedia Commons stock photograph.

• I’m a railfan, and have been since age-two — I’m currently 66.

Facebook Fulminations

I decided to post a photograph on the so-called “wall” of a Facebook “friend.”
Fasten seat-belts; bury head in lap.
I’ve had Facebook hang on functions like this.
Begin photo-posting procedure. Click photo icon; select photo from ‘pyooter.
BAM! “Share.”
Seconds pass; turning into minutes.
“Good old Facebook,” I say. “Um, I don’t have all day.”
I switch to something else.
Meanwhile, Facebook is cranking away in the background.
I can do that.
My FireFox® Internet-browser can keep multiple sites open, one of which is Facebook.
I never log out — which means I never have to log in.
Often Facebook will hang, in which case I dump it; a log-out I guess.
I thereafter log in and try again.
I look again about an hour later, and Facebook has posted the photograph.
Probably took at least five minutes, during which I did something else.
Sorry, I’m not a Windoze user. I’m not into the hourglass.
My having a Facebook is inadvertent.
I wouldn’t have one, but Facebook pulled a fast one.
They sent me an e-mail whereby an old friend from the mighty Mezz invited me to be her Facebook “friend.”
Sure; I dutifully filled in a form, little knowing I was setting up a Facebook of my own.
“Welcome to Facebook,” said another old friend.
I could just dump this whole Facebook thingy, or walk away from it, as I did an e-mail provider.
But people I like pay more attention to Facebook than e-mail.
Another factor, and probably why I wasn’t suspicious, was my younger brother in northern DE had become a Facebook evangelist.
For years he had been administrator of my family’s web-site, and it looked to him like Facebook could do all our family’s web-site was doing, without his administration.
Trouble is, Facebook can be far more public.
I suppose you could limit “friends” to only family members, but even then it fires right up for any “friend.”
Our family’s web-site you had to log in; it was more private.
My wife also initiated a Facebook, but with an alias, and her “profile-picture” is a previous dog.
The Facebook “search” function won’t work, unless the searcher knows the alias.
Plus our family’s web-site was much more user-friendly. Facebook makes you jump through hoops.
I poke around my Facebook.
“Anyone know the difference between ‘live feed’ and ‘news feed?’” I ask no one in particular.
I had tried each, and noted no difference — although now I do.
“I think it might be the order stuff is in,” my wife says.
“I’ve given up on trying to figure out Facebook,” a Facebook “friend” in VA says.
I have a few other “friends” who according to Facebook are novitiates. They’re about 50-75% into Facebook “initiation.”
How, pray tell, do they figure this?
The fact I have 27 “friends” means I’m no longer a novitiate, where those with only four or five are?
My aunt has only one “friend” — surely a record — whereas my brother in DE has almost 400.
I guess that makes him more viable as a person, kinda like your viability as a person is a function of the number of e-mails ya receive.
Various “friends” trumpet how great social networking is. Well of course it is, but they never had a family web-site.

• “Windoze” is Microsoft Windows. Apple Macintosh users claim it’s inferior, and slow. Posturing — I don’t know as it is any more; but it used to be. The “hourglass” is what Windows flies on the screen during “please wait;” although other icons have been developed. With Macintosh it’s a spinning soccer-ball. (I use an Apple Macintosh.)
• The “mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired four years ago. Best job I ever had. (“Canandaigua” [“cannon-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where we 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 15 miles away.)
• My younger brother in northern Delaware is “Bill.”
• My wife of 42 years is “Linda.” She retired as a computer programmer.