Puh-leeze!

“AHEM!”¯

—“Mark, is there any way I can delete these buxom ‘friend-suggestions’ from my laptop Facebook?”
Thankfully, they’re not on my iPhone Facebook, not yet anyway.
Just the other day each “friend-suggestion” had an “X” which vaporized the “friend-suggestion.”
I’d see some chesty vixen in my “friend-suggestions.” “Oh for Heaven sake!” Followed by zapp! GONE!
Sanctity and order restored!
Last night no Xs on a deluge of scantily-clad hotties (pictured above).
“Now what?” I probably fired up a few sluts by mistake in my feeble attempts to delete.
“Goodie; that Hughes guy is firing up our slatterns.
We got one Mark!”
“Hit him with more. He’s a dirty-old-man!”
“Mark, you’re barking up the wrong tree” — although they’re probably fake accounts. “Friend” something that poisons my computer?
“No way José!”
I think of two of my actual lady-friends. Neither are well-endowed. Both are rather flat.
But when they smile at me I am smitten!
One is old enough to be a grandmother, but here she comes. She wants to talk with me, ergo she wants to hang out with me. (“She’s faking it!”)
The other is a tiny little thing. She probably weighs less than 100 pounds.
Two children so far. I’m always amazed, and I told her.
If either of these two smile at me, and their eyes tell me — we’re wearing masks — I am DONE!
That indicates they enjoy my company, which counters “No pretty lady will enjoy your company, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!”
That second lady-friend jumps away from her workstation, smiles, and comes to talk with me. (“NOPE!”)
Mark and his busty tarts get avoided.
Maybe if he lobbed smilers at me I’d be tempted.
But even they wouldn’t be my actual lady-friends, and I have quite a few.
And they’re all smilers. Many are flat as a board!

• “Mark” is Mark Zuckerberg, founder and head-honcho of Facebook.
• “Evil and disgusting” is a legacy of my childhood, convinced of that at age 5 by Bible-thumping zealots.
• “All I need is one of your smiles, Sunshine of your eyes, oh, me, oh, my…..” —Scotch and Soda, The Kingston Trio, 1958.

For the heck of it…

—Yr Fthfl Srvnt decided to Facebook-search one of his pretty lady friends.
I happen to know her full name; with most of my lady friends I don’t.
So I fired up my Facebook. It goes direct to my “Timeline;” I never log out.
In the past I been able to Facebook-search direct through a search-window on my “Timeline.”
I poked around. No search-window on my “Timeline.” I tried this and I tried that, bombing each try.
At least an hour got blown, and I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet.
So I called my brother in DE, my fallback Facebook authority.
He was Bluetoothing in his car.
I don’t do much with Facebook, but my younger siblings do. I don’t have 4,000 FB “friends,” (maybe 60), and I’m first-born.
I post these blogs to Facebook, and occasional “Pearls-of-Wisdom” I steal (or “share”) from some fellow Facebooker.
But I don’t use Facebook as a means of communicatin’. FB “Messenger” is better than e-mail, but you gotta be Facebook “friends” to use it.
“Facebook is always changing things,” my brother said.
“Ya don’t say!” I exclaimed. “And always unannounced.”
“Don't worry Manny,” SuckerBird would say. “That Hughes guy will call his brother in DE. At age-77 he shouldn’t be drivin’ Facebook!”
“Go to your ‘Homepage’,” my brother suggested.
I never look at my “Homepage,” but it had a search-window.
I cranked in the name of my lady-friend, and there she was, among ten others with the same name.
“Well HOORAY!” I said. “And no scantily-clad buxom hotties displaying acres of exposed cleavage.
This was better than the FB search I did years ago for a pretty high-school classmate.
Acres and acres of exposed cleavage — these tarts were clearly not my high-school friend — same class as me: ’62.
89 bazilyun boobies to scroll through = “I can't breathe!”
That “Homepage” was my solution to an earlier Facebook problem.
Guess I gotta fire up my “Homepage” first. I guess that’s what a login throws up first, except I’m always logged in, but to my “Timeline.”
That “Timeline” is all I care about. I’m not drivin’ Facebook every minute of the day.
So will I “friend-request” my pretty lady friend? Probably not.
We seem to be real friends, and my liking her is better than a Facebook “like.”

• “SuckerBird” is Mark Zuckerberg, founder and head-honcho of Facebook.

Mark, puh-leeze!

Taste and decorum here. I was kind enough to crop out much of the face of this slattern, in hopes that would free her from stalking by loathsome lotharios. But I left in her lips, since they look to be heavily impregnated with botox. (Her eyes looked nice.) (Screenshot by BobbaLew.)

—“What, pray tell, is it with Facebook that they keep parading all these buxom vixens past me as “friend” suggestions?
It seems I get one of these honeys per week; two last week.
I sent a full screenshot, including her face, to a friend of mine who is a boobie-man.
He responded right away that I should “return to sender;” which I did = I dumped her immediately.
Every time I get one of these honeys I say “Mark, you’re barking up the wrong tree!”
I really like women, but most of my lady friends are nowhere near as well endowed, nor was my wife.
Adequate, but not balloon-breasted.
Many of my male friends complain I have it all wrong; that many of my lady-friends are flat-chested.
Well, LA-DEE-DAH! What matters to This Kid are the smile and the eyes.
Not too long ago I Googled “Scotch and Soda” by the Kingston Trio back in 1958. During my final year of high school (1962) I belonged to a small rock-’n’-roll band that had a girl singing “Scotch and Soda.”
It has a fabulous line: “All I need is one of your smiles, Sunshine of your eyes, oh, me, oh, my……”
Right smack on the nose!
Some lady smiles or twinkles her eyes at me and I am smitten.
I think of *****, my pretty lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool. She’s rather reserved, although she probably wouldn’t like me saying that. (She’s also married.)
When I talk to her, there’s very little eye-contact = she’ll look off into the distance.
Many of my lady-friends don’t do that.
But there was eye-contact once, and I’ll never forget it. She smiled at me, eyes twinkling. It was incredibly pleasant.
So Mark, please get over it! I don’t prefer creamy-breasted vixens.
I remember a few months ago meeting an extremely flat chested lady on a nearby rail-trail, and she kept smiling at me. Talk-talk-talk-talkity-talk!
I asked her to keep smiling at me, since it was so enjoyable. She became embarrassed we were enjoying each other’s company so much it was unfair to her husband, who wasn’t there.
I also remember talking about 25 minutes to a lady bicyclist, probably in her 40s, who kept smiling at me. She wasn’t that pretty, but her smile was ravishing.
I also remember meeting a pretty young jogger on another rail-trail, who was thrilled I struck up a conversation with her.
None of these ladies were balloon-breasted, but their smile was smashingly attractive.
That chesty “friend” suggestion is probably in her 30s, or maybe even early 40s. My lifeguard friend is 65, but she’s still attractive when she smiles.
What happens to “balloon-breasts” when she gets older? Those breasts, heavy with silicone, droop below her belly-button. Wrinkles appear.
My lifeguard friend has wrinkles too, but she also has that smile, which I will never forget. “No pretty girl will ever smile at you!” ***** has — but only occasionally = I keep hoping.
And of course many of my lady-friends render extravagant eye-contact and fabulous smiles.
I strike up conversations with complete stranger-ladies just for that eye-contact and smile.
So Mark, what matters to This Kid from ladies is the smile and eye-contact. Indication a lady enjoys my company.
Balloon-breasts would be a distraction. Beyond that her fulsome sexuality is gonna fade. My aging lady-friends still have their smile and eye-contact. Plus they’re fun to talk to.
How ya supposed to talk smothered in balloon-breasts?

Another Facebook “friend” suggestion. I don’t know this girl from the Moon. Much prettier than balloon-breasts, but it looks like she couldn’t finish her dress. (Slugged as “no botox.”)

* “Balloon-breast” is a Trumper = “hump for Trump!”
* “Mark” is Mark Zuckerberg, founder and head-honcho of Facebook.

Bigga-Bazoomza

Taste and decorum here! I cropped out pretty *****’s face, so she’s not stalked by some drooling ne’er-do-well geezer.

—Facebook, in its infinite all-knowing wisdom, has apparently decided I should get acres and acres of deep, dark cleavage.
UHMMM; yer barking up the wrong tree Mark.
Facebook is hurling lots of buxom honeys, all completely unknown to me, as “friend” suggestions.
Two so far; one being the bottom picture, blogged as truckstop candy.
Second is some pretty young cutie-pie who wasn’t able to finish her dress. “In a relationship,” it says.
The top picture is supposedly not Facebook — it was only e-mail.
Somehow it got past my two spam detectors, and ended up as a valid e-mail.
I opened it, and was immediately swamped by bigga-bazooms.
***** is cute, but them bigga-bazooms would be a distraction.
How ya supposed to enjoy the company of a lady if ya can’t even breathe?
Sex is not what’s important to this dude. What matters is “can we talk?”
Talk-talk-talk-talk; that’s where the pleasure is.
How can you talk smothered in bigga-bazooms? How can you talk with bigga-bazooms distracting you?
Most of my lady-friends are nowhere near as well-endowed as the ladies pictured.
They have what matters, their smile or eyes are ravishing.
A couple weeks ago I Googled a song my long-ago rock ’n’ roll band — high-school — played as a girl sang. It was “Scotch and Soda,” by the Kingston Trio, back in 1958.
It had a fabulous line in its lyrics: “All I need is one of your smiles, sunshine of your eyes, oh, me, oh, my…..”
There it is, readers! Every one of my lady-friends has done that to me over the past few months, and many are flat-as-a-board. (Well, maybe not “flat-as-a-board,” but no bigga-bazooms.)
When that lady smiles at me I am smitten.
It’s my past of course = “no pretty lady will smile you!”
Every time I read that “Scotch and Soda” line I tear up.
Some pretty lady smiling at me counters 70+ years of thinking “no pretty lady will have anything to do with you!”

More taste and decorum! I cropped out pretty *****’s face so she too wouldn’t be stalked by slobbering geezers. (She’s pretty, but I seen prettier.)

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

Truck-stop candy

—Who, pray tell, is ***** *****, with the deep, dark cleavage? And why is Facebook, in its infinite wisdom, suggesting I “friend” her?
I could run a screenshot of her buxom profile picture. But I don’t want some loathsome lothario stalking her.
A wisp of a smile, but I’ve seen prettier eyes.
Her rack would be distracting. And dare I say it, boobies are not what attract This Kid.
Every one of my female friends aren’t similarly endowed. What they have are an engaging smile and/or pretty eyes.
I remember years ago a lady who was flat-as-a-board.
We talked and talked and talked and talked and talked, and she kept smiling at me. Finally I told her I really liked her smile.
That made her smile even harder: she was lighting up the entire woods. We were hiking a rail-trail, she the other direction.
“This guy is really interesting!” I could see it in her eyes: they sparkled.
She became embarrassed we were having so much fun talking it wasn’t fair to her husband (not there).
We both were walking our dogs, who were going nuts. 25 minutes or so: “we got hunting to do!”
I’ve had many similar encounters. One was a pretty young jogger who told me she was thrilled I struck up a conversation with her.
Of course she was thrilled. I wasn’t hittin’ on her!
That is, I treated her as an equal talker.
Another was an older lady who smiled and smiled and smiled at me.
Another was the 40-ish bicyclist lady smiling at me as we talked and talked and talked some more.
“We could talk forever, and it sure would be fun, but errands await.” She wasn’t that pretty; but her smile was ravishing.
Sadly, I don’t think my wife ever smiled like that; or if she did, I didn’t notice.
What attracted me was that she liked me, firstborn of hyper-religious, overly judgmental parents, eager to tell me I was disgusting because I couldn’t worship by holier-than-thou father.
My wife wasn’t a sexpot, but she could be attractive. She’d been raised by her mother to be a frump.
“You get rid of them glasses, and let your hair grow, and you’ll look a lot prettier,” I told her.
Her mother was aghast. I was leading her daughter into sin and degradation; I was making a frump pretty!
Facebook was making another “friend” suggestion for someone I thought might be my lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
This “friend” suggestion had the same first name as that lifeguard, but I been told that second suggestion wasn’t a lifeguard.
All of which has me wondering why Facebook would suggest two women I don’t know.
I did some research into that second lady’s FB “friends,” and none are “mutual friends.” Also, none of *****’s 89-bazilyun “friends” are “mutual.”
No doubt researching *****’s “friends” triggered a slew of fevered Facebook algorithms. “That Hughes guy is researching ‘boobie-girl’!”
And if their second “friend” suggestion had actually been my lifeguard friend, how would they connect me with her?
“Google knows where we are,” I told my lifeguard friend once. “My iPhone is in the locker room, and yours is in the office. Google knows we’re both at this YMCA pool.”
(And perish-the-thought, I think my lifeguard friend likes that I say things like that. “You’re funny,” she would say. And I’ve heard that from other ladies, and they laugh and smile telling me that.)
2-3 years ago my aquacise-instructor, cute and definitely not a Harley-mama, gave me her business card. I immediately cranked that into my iPhone contacts, about when a friend installed “Facebook for iPhone.”
Within a week Facebook suggested that aquacise-instructor as a “friend.”
Where did they get her? She’s not “mutual” with any of my “friends.”
SuckerBird and his cronies secretly trolled my iPhone contacts. Another Facebook fast-one!
Ignorant as I was at the time, I sent her a “friend” request, and I’m glad I did, because I probably access her page more than most.
So will Yrs Trly click the “friend-request” button for *****?
ABSOLUTELY NOT!
I scroll through *****’s 89-bazilyun “friends,” and many are grizzled truckers.
Truck-stop candy? No way José!
Her cleavage is appealing, but no match for the smile or flashing eyes of one of my flat-as-a-board lady-friends.
And if I may say so, I think the girls with a buxom rack carry an albatross. They can’t talk easily with the lechers they attract.
Poor *****! Pretty, but candy for truckers.
The quantity of Facebook “friends,” or bedpost notches, do not denote one’s worth.

• I do aquatic balance training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool, currently one class per week — almost an hour — less than usual due to COVID-19.
• “Harley-mama” defined: smoke, drink, gamble, a slattern, slovenly, thunder-thighs, etc.

Facebook fulminatin’

—“Go ahead, make my day!” yells a hyper-religious friend of mine on Facebook to another friend who had the awful temerity, unmitigated gall, and horrific audacity to question the character of those who support The Donald.
I too find myself wondering about the character of the hyper-religious who support a president hot to grab the privates of starlets.
But if I said anything I’d just be adding to the racket Facebook became.
Wild accusations, misinformation, conspiracies, etc.
A friend of mine, who like me uses her Facebook to project who she is, posts to her Facebook something she actually read.
She usually gets a few responses. But often they’re just a thumbs-up or a “like” or “Congrats.” —I’m left wondering if the responder completely read her post.
If a word-generator like me stumbled across her post, I’d say too much. And I no longer respond directly to her Facebook. After all, I delete from my own Facebook. It’s her Facebook.
But she dare not discuss politics, or she’d get a torrent of noisy blustering.
I picture my zealot friend quietly typing anger into his computer keyboard, foaming at a distant friend who also is at home with his computer.
Ever notice how people try to one-up Limberger et al on Facebook?
Or use Facebook to demonstrate their alleged computer prowess?
Some of us aren’t scoring points. Then too, some of us actually think. (Or should I say “think for ourselves,” instead of letting Limberger think for us.)
That friend I mentioned might say something worth hearing, as do others. My deceased wife was like that. Her wit and intelligence would leave the self-declared “genius” behind.
But saying that on Facebook is only adding to the madness Facebook became.
Instead of civil discourse with friends, Facebook takes away diplomacy and tact.
Suddenly our friends can be STUPID!
Ya don’t face-to-face tell someone they’re stupid.

• “Limberger” is Rush Limbaugh. I call him that because I think he stinks.

Garbage in garbage out

—“SuckerBird, you’re forcing me to ‘share’ something, I don’t wanna ‘share’!”
Engage old waazoo = “Who programs this stuff?”
“Garbage in garbage out!”
My wife fell into programming computers while I was still driving bus. A fellow bus-driver’s son was also a computer-programmer, which is from where I got garbage in garbage out!
Anyone reading this blog knows how exasperated I get with Facebook. Every time I fire it up I get mired in the “Slough-of-Despond.”
Twenty minutes become three hours.
Secretive unannounced interface changes, and on and on.
Hairballs galore! And I don’t have all day.
How I got to that “share” option I have no idea. I was trying to fiddle a video that wouldn't play.
I tried this and I tried that, but didn’t see a “cancel.”
The fact I even have a Facebook at all is due to a fast-one by SuckerBird and his cronies.
And then of course there’s SuckerBird etc. secretly trolling my iPhone contacts to suggest “friends.”
I only have 55 Facebook “friends,” and I could “unfriend” perhaps half. I don’t feel 89 bazilyun Facebook “friends” mean I’m worth something.
Every time I fire it up, I gotta figger it out.
And it seems like what comments or “likes” you get are no more than 3 to 5 words, like “CONGRATS,” or “you go girl!”
WRONG CENTURY, I presume: born in 1944 = well before “try it and see what happens.”
Every time I fire it up, I gotta engage guile-and-cunning.
Plus I have a SmartPhone eager to make pocket-calls if I dare breathe on it the wrong way. —How many times have I corrected some unintended video call?
Wondrous time-saving technology = twenty minutes become three hours.
Lawn awaits, mail goes unopened, or laundry waits too, until I finish wrastling with time-saving technology.
Every night, I’m lucky to get to bed by midnight, because I had to fiddle time-saving technology.
I managed to find an out on Facebook, so I didn’t hafta “share” what I didn’t wanna “share.”
Wrastle this, and wrastle that = “try it and see what happens!”
SuckerBird and his cronies are always steering me into some time-consuming hairball.

• The “Slough-of-Despond” is from John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress (1678). Think “swamp-of-despair.”

Wandering off-topic

(Screenshot by BobbaLew.)

—The image above was posted to a “story” of one of my Facebook “friends.”
I screenshot it so I could put it on my own Facebook, with which I do little.
The image was “liked” by some of my Facebook “friends,” most of whom are ne’er-do-wells like me.
“I bet you’re on that Facebook every minute!” my brother bellows. He refuses to Facebook, as do many of my actual friends.
“NOPE!” I commented. “At most an hour per day, if not less. I only have 53 Facebook ‘friends,’ not the hundreds of some.”
The fact I have a Facebook at all is due to a fast-one by SuckerBird and his cronies.
Some of my FB “friends” are also due to similar SuckerBird fast-ones, like secretly trolling my iPhone contacts.
I think of one “friend” in particular. I put her business-card phone-number in my iPhone contacts, and suddenly she was suggested as a Facebook “friend.”
WHAT? How did that happen? She’s not mutual with any of my “friends.”
So who knows if any others were suggested. I don’t add “friends” galore, and have “friends” I could “unfriend.”
Being “friends” with her is okay, since we are similar in some ways. In other ways we aren’t.
Occasionally she posts something on her Facebook worth “sharing.”
But it woulda been better if we had crossed paths not via a Facebook fast-one.
I have other “friends” who found me legitimately. A girl with whom I attended college, a cousin who thinks like I do, plus the first girl I dated in high school. (She lives in Washington State.)
I have another “friend” I found myself only because she told me she had a Facebook, so I looked for it. I rarely talk to her, only on her birthday, which I don’t do via Facebook.
For a while SuckerBird and his cronies deluged me with busty cleavage. Like my age (early 70s back then) made me a lecherous geezer.
Finally they gave up!
What always melts me is some pretty girl smiling at me, an indication she enjoys my company.
And many of my female friends are flat-chested. But they can talk, and that's what matters. Sex is pleasant, but it can ruin conversation.

I had to look back at that screenshot, since I seem to be wandering off-topic.
I had to get used to considering myself an artist, since I always was told I was stupid.
I used to be able to line-draw, and I come from a family of so-called “artists,” mainly from my father’s side. My aunt (his sister) could paint, and my youngest sister wanted to become an artist. We’re good with our eye-hand coordination.
The import of the image seems to be that artists consort with the dregs of society.
This certainly is true in my case, since most of my friends are ne’er-do-wells.
“What in the world does she ever see in him?” my wife’s mother shrieked on first meeting me. “He’ll never amount to anything!”
And I haven’t = 16&1/2 years of driving transit bus.
“You have a college degree, and you drive bus? What did you major in?”
“Bus-driving,” I’d say.
My wife always told me the reason we lasted 44&1/2 years was because I could make her laugh.
“Yer gonna get married someday,” I’ve told many pretty young girls. “Whatever ya do, marry someone that can make ya laugh!

• 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 environs. My heart-defect caused stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability, and that defect was repaired. I recovered well enough to return to work at a newspaper; I retired from that almost 15 years ago.
• My beloved wife of 44&1/2 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I still miss her. BEST friend I ever had, and after my childhood I needed one. She actually liked me.
• I lost my ability to line-draw with my stroke. (I also lost nine years of classical piano-training.)

The dreaded FB algorithm

—Yrs Trly has only 53 Facebook “friends.” (And I probably could “defriend” a few.)
Not the 89 bazilyun of some of my FB “friends;” nor even hundreds.
I don’t consider my number of “friends” indicates my viability.
The fact I even have a Facebook at all is due to a fast-one by SuckerBird and his cronies. They were playing the marginal computer-savvy of someone in his 60s.
Now I’m 76, and Facebook seems no longer what it was 11-12 years ago.
What happened to one's “wall,” for example? And Facebook likes to change its computer-interface unannounced = “Now what?”
Despite intrusion of FB’s secret algorithm to limit communication with my various “friends,” I have a few with whom I communicate quite a bit.
—The one with whom I communicate most is my aquacise-instructor. Which also is strange, considering she also resulted from another Facebook fast-one.
Facebook surreptitiously trolled my iPhone contacts immediately after I got “Facebook for iPhone.” (Thank you Mark!)
I had her phone number in there from her business card, so Facebook suggested her as a “friend.”
“What?” I exclaimed. “She’s not mutual with anyone!”
Ignorantly I sent her a “friend” request, and for whatever reason she responded positively.
Now Facebook notifies me of anything she posted, “liked,” whatever. We’re worlds apart, but communicate quite a bit.
I have other FB “friends” with whom I communicate.
—One is the first girl I dated. We attended the same high-school, and now she’s married, retired, and lives in Washington-state.
I get notifications regarding her too.
—Another is a cousin in NC. She also is married and retired, but she’s fun to talk to, since we have similar politics.
—Another is a girl who attended the same college as me. She lives in Philadelphia, and also is married and retired.
Those last two searched me out, as did that girl in Washington-state. Same schools, relatives, whatever.
We talk and talk and talk some more, often via Facebook “Messenger.”
I don't think I get notifications for everything they post, plus I think my aquacise-instructor limits some of her posts. But I do get quite a bit = it seems they “follow” me somewhat.
That is, whatever I post shows up in their “feeds;” I don’t “limit,” since I don’t post much anyway.
And quite often I “share” or copy/paste whatever they posted so it will be on my page.
(This doesn’t seem to be Facebook as it existed 11-12 years ago. Now it's my Facebook, and the only one who posts to it is ME. Anyone else I delete.)
“Shares” and copy/pastes are especially true of my aquacise-instructor, who like me seems a “bleeding-heart liberal,” although I’m sure she wouldn’t like me calling her that.
“Bleeding-heart liberal” is my tub-thumping CONSERVATIVE sister, deceased almost nine years ago.
That aquacise-instructor is apolitical. I’m somewhat that myself: “Hey Ron, let’s not talk politics; I wanna remain friends.”
Yet my other three female friends have a walloping good time bewailing “The Donald.”
—I also have one more female “friend” about 40, who lives near LA and is married.
But she has her Facebook set up so I can’t post to it. But I do get notifications of when she’s posted to that new FB “story” thingy.
We worked together at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper; and she’s pretty much the reason why I blog stuff.
Like me, she also is rather wacko. She also badmouths The Donald.
(It seems The Donald is anti anyone with a college education. “Where would I be if not for the uneducated?”)
—I also have numerous male FB friends, and the dreaded algorithm notifies me when they posted anything.
But only a couple. 10-15 “friends” is enough.

On ruminatin’

—A few days ago Yr Fthfl Srvnt “friended” Facebook “friend” #59.
I thought she was #61, but I don’t do much with Facebook; I don’t have 89-bazilyun “friends.”
Never in my entire life have I met this lady. She’s Class of ’68 at my college; I’m Class of ’66.
She’s Facebook “friends” with another Class of ’68 grad with whom I happen to be “friends.”
She also Facebook “messaged” me back in 2009 about whether I was the brother of someone she thought the world of. That would be my sister, who only did two years at my college, also Class of ’68. That sister is gone.
Somehow I noticed my other FB “friend” was “friends” with this lady.
“That name sounds familiar,” I said to myself. There in my Facebook “messages” was her 2009 message-string.
She’s a writer, although far different than what I do.
She’s more reflective and contemplative, although I perceive similarities.
She also writes poetry, and I don’t.
We also are worlds apart. She’s a believer, and I’m not.
I never understand Facebook. Things go on in the background I have no clue about.
I also don’t care.
Every time I fire up Facebook it’s different. SuckerBird and his cronies never announce changes.
I’m told a secret algorithm limits the “friend” posts I see.
It runs all the posts of an old newspaper coworker, plus the posts of another “friend,” if she didn’t limit viewers (????).
This laptop displays nine “friend” profile-pictures — my iPhone displays six.
(They fire up that “friend’s” profile-page.)
On my laptop, ninth was that limiter. (If that’s what she’s doing — who knows!)
Suddenly my new Facebook “friend” became first of my nine profile-pictures, and my limiter got zapped.
Okay, but that means I gotta scroll my entire “friends” list to find that “friend.” Also okay, but her page was the one I most visited.
She and I are also worlds apart, but often she posts something worth reading.
Of my other 9/6 “friends” there were those I look at occasionally. But there also are three I never look at.
Perhaps my 9/6 are most recent. But one is eons ago; yet she’s #7 of the nine.
Whither? I have another “friend” out in Californy who bewails the insanity of Facebook.
Another “friend” in Washington state bewails Facebook’s dreaded algorithm.
So what’s all this coming to? No idea, except it seems I gained a writer friend. Or one who, like me, lives in a world of her own.
She posts a lot of her poetry on Facebook. I’ve read some of it. Some dude does something for her, and it becomes a poem.
This is what happens to me. I cogitate some inconsequential event, then write about it. I also celebrate the passing of my childhood, and 70 years late.
“NO PRETTY LADY WILL TALK TO YOU!” Yet many do.
It comes naturally = make ‘em laugh!

• “My college” is Houghton College (“HO-tin;” as in “oh,” not “how” or “who”) in western New York, from where I graduated with a BA in 1966. I never regretted it, although I graduated a Ne’er-do-Well, without their blessing. Houghton is an evangelical liberal-arts college, and was the first religious institution to not consider me rebellious and of-the-Devil = a threat.
• A “believer” is one who believes God exists. Atheists emphatically believe God doesn’t exist — I’m not atheist. I’m more agnostic, one who doesn’t know whether God (He/She/It/whatever) exists.
• “SuckerBird” is Mark Zuckerberg, founder and head-honcho of Facebook.
• All-of-a-sudden my “limiter” is back into my nine profile-pictures. GO FIGGER!

Can they ever leave well-enough alone?

—“Where is it, SuckerBird?” I said to my iPhone.
“Another of your secret unannounced changes to Facebook’s user interface.”
All-of-a-sudden my profile-page icon was missing. I poked around, fingering various icons, none of which produced my profile-page.
Then I tried what appeared to be a menu-icon, lots of tiny horizontal lines arranged parallel.
It threw Facebook’s vast array at me: “Groups,” “Marketplace,” “Dating” (?), “Fundraising,” “Gaming,” whatever…..
Atop the menu, colored the same as its surrounding, was “see your profile.”  It didn’t match the other menu items.
“Thank you Mark! You’re hiding it.”
My Facebook is 11 years old. I hardly look at it, and rarely look at my “home-page.”
I’d dump it, but so many of my actual friends use Facebook.
Facebook no longer is what it was when I started.
I remember how Facebook deluged me with scantily-clad vixens. All because I’m a geezer — a “lonely hot-to-trot widower.”
When I joined, Facebook’s “Home-Page” didn’t exist — or did it? One’s “wall” did, a means of exchanging online information among Facebook “friends.”
I can still “wall” things, but the “wall” is gone.
89 bazilyun Facebook users need 89 bazilyun terabytes of server-space. I picture 89 bazilyun servers filling hanger-buildings nationwide.
It’s like every day Mark has to buy another server — and servers cost money. How can SuckerBird, etc, enjoy their megabuck Porsches?
I remember Ferraris and Lamborghinis slow-cruising Fort Lauderdale’s crowded streets at 10-15 mph. Rubber laid at stop-lights.
Look what I got!
Now Facebook wants me to “story” things. “Friends” “story” stuff instead of post to their profile-page.
To me that’s a ploy to reduce server usage. Facebook got so big it outgrew its ability to do as originally intended.
I don’t “story.” And my Facebook became MY Facebook. If anyone puts anything on my profile-page, I delete. That counters its original intent, although comments and “likes” I allow. (Quite often comments are only “CONGRATS!”)
Of course, Facebook’s original intent was also to survey its users, then market that information to sellers.
—70 years old, eh? Flood him with cleavage.
—A railfan, eh? Train-videos, model-trains, etc. Stampeding train marketers!
—Irish-Setter, eh? $32.95 for an Irish-Setter tee-shirt. (“What’s it made of? Gold?”)
I don’t get much any more, probably because I never bought anything.
Most irksome are the unannounced changes Facebook makes.
Now what? “Try it and see what happens.”
“How can we infuriate the average Facebook user?” Facebook’s techno-mavens start dorking things around.
Suddenly your profile-page is buried.
Engage guile-and-cunning. (“Where is it, SuckerBird?”)
Whatever happened to “Keep-it-simple-stupid?” (“KISS.”)
Change for the sake of change.

---

I wrote this four days ago, and already Facebook is different.

• “SuckerBird” is Mark Zuckerberg, founder and head-honcho of Facebook.
• A terabyte is 1,000 gigabytes. (A gigabyte [gig] is 1,000 megabytes.)
• RE: “model-trains……”  — My favorite gauge is four-feet eight & 1/2 inches, the real thing.
• My current dog, “Killian,” is a “rescue Irish-setter.” He’s eleven, and is my seventh Irish-Setter, an extremely lively dog. A “rescue Irish setter” is usually an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. Or perhaps its owner died. (Killian was a divorce victim.) By getting a rescue-dog I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Killian was fine. He’s my fifth rescue.

Silly me!

—“Heads up!” a Facebook message screamed.
It supposedly was from my cousin ****.
“Almost every account is being cloned … They want your ‘friends’ to add to the (cloned) Facebook account; thinking it’s you. After which they can say whatever they want on an account that’s supposedly yours.”
I got one of these messages some time ago. I think I just dumped it.
“Please pass it on!” it yelled.
Silly me! I was stupid enough to “pass it on” to five-or-six Facebook “friends” = all those suggested.
Probably poisoning their equipment.
I should e-mail my cousin **** to see if her message was legit.
I apologized to two Facebook “friends.”
“The world we grew up in didn’t have stuff like this.”

“Too much negative stuff on FB lately”

—So said an actual friend with whom I happen to be Facebook “friends.”
She thereafter began a “Family Feud” game on her Facebook. Sadly, few are playing.
I have a Facebook, but don’t do much with it. I’ve considered dumping it, but haven’t since so many actual friends use Facebook.
Some time ago I heard my friend telling a much older gentleman Facebook is worth having since it allows a family to communicate despite distant separation.
That gentleman refuses to be tech-savvy, and successfully driving Facebook takes computer-literacy.
Years ago, back before Facebook, a younger brother set up a family website. The provider was MyFamily.com.
I used it, but never had much family news.
MyFamily.com eventually tanked, perhaps because of Facebook.
So now my siblings use Facebook to communicate. Plus it’s more powerful. Facebook crunches video; I don’t think MyFamily could.
By not using Facebook I’m out-of-the-loop. That brother’s son, my nephew, and his wife, had a new baby. My learning of that was three years later. The birth was announced via Facebook, so naturally I’m out-of-it because I don’t Facebook much.
The announcement was probably on my “home-page,” which I rarely look at.
I used to say Facebook was for those lacking a life. Dancing-cat videos and bathroom humor.
But Facebook became a sounding-board for all the strident Rush Limbaugh wannabees. And that’s both ways: Trump-haters and Trump-lovers.
And it’s MY Facebook. If anyone posts anything I delete. Comments and “likes” I allow, but otherwise it’s MY Facebook.
I think my “friend’s” Facebook is the same. And it seems my “friend” no longer posts the occasional “pearls-of-wisdom” to which I earlier looked forward.
So-be-it! Facebook is no longer what it was. My brother-in-Boston, who refuses to Facebook, says I probably fiddle my Facebook all-day-long.
Hardly, although some do.
I think Facebook’s time is over.
“Too much negative stuff,” my friend says.
Plus a prez hot to make Internet potshots from the White House toilet at 3 a.m.
Gumint by Tweet®. Time for a uniter.

Pearls-of-wisdom

—“I bet you troll that Facebook every minute,” my brother-in-Boston exclaimed.
“I do not!” I shouted. “I admit I have a Facebook, but it’s lucky if it gets five minutes per day.”
My brother refuses to Facebook; it’s decidedly unmacho.
“I have a Facebook due to a fast-one by SuckerBird and his cronies 10 years ago. I’d dump it, except too many of my real friends use Facebook.
“You can’t dump it,” my brother said. “Betty’s still exists.”
“As does Linda’s,” I noted. Betty is my sister, and Linda was my wife. Both died eight years ago.
“I need a death-certificate to close Linda’s Facebook. Ain’t doin’ it! If they wanna be jerks, let it slide. No activity to her Facebook for eight years.”
My brother reflects a perception I heard before. Facebook is for people lacking a life. About all I do with my Facebook is post blog-links, plus occasional pictures, videos, and magazine articles.
I never look at my “Home-Page.” That five minutes is looking at Facebook’s “notifications” (the bell). What’s there is usually notification about one “friend” adding to her “story.”
I rifle it, since all she ever talks about are her soap-opera friends, plus her friends in Wide-Wild-World of Prefessional Wrastling. (Ker-SLAM!)
I also get notification about posts to my cousin’s anti-Trump Facebook group. He is “moderator;” he can disapprove a post. Most of the magazine articles are interesting; would that I had time to read ‘em.
I also get notification about posts from another Facebook “friend;” a person my brother calls a “flirt.” She happens to be female, and cute.
I don’t get everything she posts, but I visit her page every day because she occasionally posts pearls-of-wisdom.
The fact she and I are “friends” is another fast-one by SuckerBird and his cronies: secretly plumbing my iPhone contacts.
That’s about all I do with Facebook. I only have 60 “friends,” not hundreds.
I have other Facebook “friends,” some of whom could be called “flirts.” Once-in-a-while they post something worth reading, although that one “friend” seems more inclined to post a pearl-of-wisdom.
And thanks to Facebook I reconnected with people who were once real friends.

• “SuckerBird” is Mark Zuckerberg, founder and head-honcho of Facebook.

Oh, the hoops!

—My cousin Patsy passed away. She was four years older than me, and one of my Uncle Bill’s eight children.
My Uncle Bill’s name was actually Ethelbert, but the family called him “Bill.” He was first-born.
I have only three cousins on my father’s side. Two are still alive. My mother came from a big family, and her brothers and sisters had many children. I have forty-or-so cousins on my mother’s side. Forty is probably wrong, but there are so many I lost count.
I’m the oldest of seven, four of which are still alive. A brother died of leukemia in 1953, and was quickly replaced by another brother who had Down Syndrome. He died at age-14 in 1968. Why seems secret.
The classiest thing my parents did was refuse to institutionalize him. He was brought home, and this was back when most mentally-retarded children were institutionalized (born in 1954).
“I can’t do that, Thomas,” said my mother. “He’s my flesh-and-blood.”
I and a sister slightly younger than me, constitute what I call “the first wave.” That sister died of pancreatic cancer eight years ago.
The “second wave” is my brother who died in 1953, plus my Down Syndrome brother.
A third and final wave exists. I have two brothers born in 1957 and 1958, plus a sister born in 1961. I was 17 when she was born, and to a small extent I was father to that final wave.
By then my parents were worn out; but then I was off to college, then out on-my-own and married. That third wave had to grow up without my presence.
Patsy was also from a big family. Many were older than her. There were only a few of my Uncle Bill’s children I knew. One was Patsy, and others were my cousin Judy, my age, and my cousin Denny, younger than me.
Patsy’s passing was announced on Facebook, unknowable to non-Facebookers.
I have a Facebook, but don’t do much with it. I only have 59 “friends,” and rarely do I look at my “home-page.”
My brother-in-Boston (1957) refuses to have a Facebook, but his wife has one. I do so little with Facebook, yet my siblings use Facebook to communicate, so I’m often outta-the-loop.
A nephew and his wife had a baby, and I didn’t know until that baby was age-three. My fault, of course. The birth was announced via Facebook, and I rarely look at my home-page.
If my brother-in-Boston knew about it his wife told him.
My contact with Facebook is through Facebook e-mail notifications. “View on Facebook,” it says. I click that and my browser triggers Facebook.
This is when the hoop-jumping began.
My default browser is Firefox, and apparently Facebook, in its infinite wisdom, decided to no longer program for Firefox.
Okay, switch to Apple’s Safari, which I also have, but it’s not default. Which means copy the Facebook address from Firefox, then paste it into Safari’s address-window.
Since Firefox is my default browser, a Facebook e-mail notification kicks off Firefox. “Oh yeah,” I say, having watched wheels spin going nowhere.
“Gotta use Safari.” Facebook’s e-mail notification was only a few words, and was to a group-site = our family. Clicking “see more” elicited more wheel-spinning = Facebook via Firefox.
The post seemed important. Although that three-year-old baby was important too, but I wasn’t notified.
That coulda been Facebook’s secret algorithm, which limits what I see on Facebook. I only have 59 “friends,” not thousands, but only get notifications for a few. Apparently my remaining sister makes the cut, as does my 1958 brother.
Usually when I go to Facebook, I’m not looking at my “home-page.” But only via that home-page can I open my family’s group site. Patsy’s passing was announced on that group site. Guile-and cunning here = fire up home-page under Safari.
Finally, after an hour dorking around, plus with what gray-matter remains, my cousin Patsy was announced as gone. I had to jump all over creation. The average 75-year-old woulda given up!
And who knows how many cousins died when I do so little with Facebook?

• A “default” Internet-browser is the one links fire up. I have both Safari and Firefox, but Firefox is default. —Since Facebook is the browser-link I most often see, I’m considering making Safari default. Although I would continue to most use Firefox.
• RE: “What gray-matter remains.....” —I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. It killed a portion of my brain.

Who was the third hit?

I Facebook these blogs.
But I wrote one the other day of which I was leery. There are “friends”on my Facebook not in my Ne’er-do-well list.
My “Ne’er-do-well” list is people to whom I e-mail blog-links. Those not in my my Ne’er-do-well list get my blogs from a Facebook link.
I usually get one or two Facebook hits.
BlogSpot tells me how many hits I get — but not who. Facebooking a blog-link takes 15-20 seconds. E-mail links take 2-3 minutes.
What I do is put out the FB link the same time I publish the blog.
I e-mail Ne’er-do-well links the next day. This also tells me if anyone hit the FB link overnight. My Ne’er-do-well links increase the number of hits. FB might get 0-2 hits; e-mail gets 8-20 additional — sometimes more.
Every time someone clicks a blog-link, a “hit” is recorded.
I was leery of putting a blog on my Facebook. I was afraid some FB “friend” might read it, and take it wrong. (The written word does that — even the spoken word.)
THREE hits the next day.
I put the blog-link on two individual “friend’s” Facebooks. That’s two hits. So who was the third hit?
It can’t be someone I’m Facebook “friends” with, since I didn’t Facebook the blog.
And I hadn’t e-mailed the link yet.
Someone must be following me on BlogSpot. Or perhaps Facebook notified my “friends” I posted to a “friend’s” Facebook.
I have no idea how Facebook works, especially since it likes to change unannounced.
I could recite chapter-and-verse. Like “thank you Mark!”
So who was the third hit? Will I get surprised? Is it someone I wanted to avoid?
I have a few actual friends savvy enough to follow me outside Facebook.
Then too that third hit may be someone wanting to sell me something. All I hafta do is supply my credit-card number, etc.
It’s happened.

• RE: “Hit......” —Every time my blog is accessed on BlogSpot a “hit” is recorded. (That doesn’t mean my blog was read.)
• RE: Misreads....... —People get what they want from written word, spoken word too. Often anger results, or “I never said that.”
• “Mark” is Mark Zuckerberg, founder and head-honcho of Facebook.

Order more-or-less restored

At age-75 I occasionally get stinking computer hairballs.
My cheering-section (my wife) died over seven years ago. I hafta solve these problems myself.
Facebook, which I rarely look at, would no longer post anything. My browser was Firefox 67.0.4, the most recent update.
I post these blogs on Facebook — as a link. I also had a photograph to post.
I called my brother in northern DE, a Facebook maven.
“Maybe it’s your browser,” he suggested. “Facebook may have switched to only Internet-Explorer and Apple’s “Safari.” (And perhaps Google Chrome, which he uses.)
So I fired up Safari. “As I understand it,” I said to my brother; “my Facebook is stand-alone, and any browser can access it.”
Facebook under Safari wanted a login. I provided a FB password I had on my desktop. “That password is old. Three months ago your password was changed.”
-Hairball number-one.
Next was trying to fly a blog on BlogSpot, my blog-service.
My usual BlogSpot interface wanted my Google-account.
“WHAT?” -Hairball number-two.
I couldn’t do anything for lack of a Google-account.
I had no idea what a Google-account was. What I perceived was a mysterious firewall that prevented me from doing anything.
Things were adding up; I was climbing the walls. I began to question my existence.
I tried resetting my Google-account password, and entered that into my BlogSpot entreaty. Nyet! And of course passwords are mere dots. I can’t see if I mistyped, and stroke-survivors often do.
I shut down and went to bed, It was almost midnight already, and I’d have to drive up to Mac-Shack, 25 miles, in hopes ****** would appear to repair the mess I made.
And Mac-Shack is computer repair, not fixing messes.
Plus I don’t think ****** could get me back on Facebook.
The other night I fired up both Firefox and Safari. Firefox had my Facebook address. I copy/pasted that into Safari.
Facebook wanted a password, so I clicked “forgot password” to reset my FB password. I came up with something that wouldn’t prompt “used before” and “old password.” I also wrote down my new password in a small notebook.
I also noticed an icon that made my typing visible.
Viola! I could see what I was typing, and suddenly there was my Facebook.
“We’ll try this,” I said, and I posted a blog-link.
Then “we’ll try this.” I posted the picture that prompted my earlier madness.
I e-mailed my DE brother: “I guess I’m now Facebooking via Safari instead of Firefox.”
If Facebook did indeed walk away from Firefox, “Thanks for telling me, Mark!” (Another Facebook secret.)
It was becoming apparent I could “change password” fairly easily. It helped I could see what I was typing.
I Googled “What is a Google-account?” Seemed it was little more than my e-mail-address and a password.
So change Google-account password. The usual techno-leaps: a secret code was texted to my iPhone. This was similar to “change FB password.” It helped I could see things. Typing blind invites mistypes: (“Naughty-naughty; passwords don’t match!”)
Suddenly my BlogSpot interface reappeared.
Order restored, more-or-less. I could skip Mac-Shack; leave poor ****** alone.

• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.
• “Mark” is Mark Zuckerberg, founder and head-honcho of Facebook.

The lack of a Facebook paragraph-return

I look at my Facebook fairly often; usually every day.
But not as often as some. I’m not enslaved by it.
A friend suggests Facebook is for those lacking a life.
I only have 59 “friends,” not thousands.
And I rarely look at my “feed.”
I drive from Facebook’s “notifications,” which are apparently limited by whatever — the secret algorithm for example.
I noticed “friend” posts or messages often have paragraphs of inordinate length. E.g. a single paragraph for an entire 300-word post (or message).
I come from a newspaper background, where paragraphs are short: two or three sentences.
Most Facebook posts (or messages) are only one sentence, or only one word: “congrats” in bold-red, for example.
There’s a reason for those long paragraphs. The computer’s Q-W-E-R-T-Y keyboard lacks a “return” key. There is a “return” key, but it’s also the Facebook “enter” key.
Hit that key by mistake and all-of-a-sudden you posted what you just did.
My iPhone’s virtual keyboard has a “return” key, but it’s not Facebook’s “enter” key. If a Facebook post (or message) has paragraph-returns it was done from a Smartphone.
I circumvent Facebook’s “enter” function by doing my laptop posts in a word-processor. I can hit the paragraph-return without publishing what I just wrote.
Of course, none of this matters any more. Paragraph length, correct spelling and grammar, punctuation: all are toast
We writers are doomed. Except if I make a mistake, the CONSERVATIVE grammar-police take me to task for being too “liberial” (the kerreck CONSERVATIVE spelling).

Dancing cats

I went all the way to Fort Lauderdale to get this. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—The other morning when I unplugged my iPhone from my charger it displayed a “memory” I might wanna “share:” pictures from my recent trip to Fort Lauderdale to visit my niece.
I just got back.
No idea specifically who trolled my iPhone photographs, but my guess was SuckerBird and his cronies. Since I just installed Facebook “Messenger” on my iPhone.
But it may be something else, since I had an earlier Fort Lauderdale “memory” which I don’t think was Facebook. Some background program sorted my iPhone photos by location and date, and created a 2017 “memory.”
But I’m more inclined to think this was Facebook. (It wasn’t; read on.....)
Do I really wanna “share” this stuff? La-dee-dah! One picture (above) is of my niece displaying a new wheeled suitcase I bought to replace my cumbersome Ferrari duffel.
I used that duffel to make the trip, angering all-and-sundry. I traded it to my niece’s teenaged son, a lover of exotic cars. I always said that duffel was the closest I’d get to owning an actual Ferrari.
Also suggested were pictures I took of Sammy the Samoyed dog. I took those pictures in a dog-park because my aquacise-instructor, who I text too much, also has a Samoyed.
But I think Sammy was more impressive, mainly because he was so big: a giant white puffball.
Also suggested was a picture of my niece’s German Shepherd that wasn’t one of my photos. My niece took it awhile ago, and “air-dropped” it to my iPhone. Take that, goofballs! I just defeated yer fancy logic!
A friend suggests Facebook is for those lacking a life. I admit I follow my aquacise-instructor’s Facebook most every day — we are “friends.” Mainly because she often posts something worth reading, as opposed to dancing cats.
Another friend says Facebook is for arguing politics. One-up The Donald, or maybe even Limberger (Limbaugh), if that’s possible. Strident bellowing to boost a lie.
That guy says he no longer Facebooks, bringing sweetness and light to his life.

---

Now that I’ve actually “shared” the photos, I don’t think it’s Facebook. Something, probably Apple, trolled my iPhone photos, setting aside those from my trip. GPS sorted ‘em into “albums.”
A text was sent from iCloud of all those photos, including one I reshot four ways.
That started a text-string of all those to whom I “shared.” There were only three. I’ve since realized I had other Smartphone users, at least three more.
Of the original three, my baby-sister — don’t call her that, even though we’re 17 years apart, and I drove her and my mother home from the hospital — texted back.
So did my aquacise-instructor. Some of the pictures were I and my niece’s children sticking our tongues out, a Hughes tradition.
With my iPhone I can access all human knowledge. Yet I get tongues out and dancing cats.

• “SuckerBird” is Mark Zuckerberg, founder and head-honcho of Facebook.
• RE: “the tongues out Hughes tradition......” —Years ago we called my mother “Motor-Drive.” She’d flutter ponderously about with her Instamatic photographing all-and-sundry. At a family picnic I hoisted my niece, about age-10 at that time, atop my shoulders, and my mother attacked: “I gotta get a picture.” “Hey Jill,” I said (her name is Jill); “stick yer tongue out.” In that picture both our tongues are out. That quickly became a tradition = all attempts at family photography by my mother were met with tongues out.

Another Facebook hairball

“Why can’t they leave things alone?” I asked.
I happened to fire up the Facebook of a “friend” in search of a specific photograph.
Things were different. Suddenly my “friend’s” photographs were in “albums.” Maybe they existed before, but they weren’t displayed as such.
Another unannounced Facebook change.
My Facebook is around 10 years old. I don’t do much with it. I know a guy who poo-poos Facebook, but my “friend” celebrates it can be used to keep track of family.
So did our family’s website long ago. That service tanked, partly because of Facebook, I guess. Now we get similar functioning in exchange for targeted marketing and snooping.
And buxom hotties since I happen to be in my seventies. Plus various Facebook fast-ones, like secretly trolling my iPhone contacts to suggest “friends,” etc.
Plus every time I fire up Facebook I get a new interface. Unannounced and unexplained of course. How do I drive that? I hafta engage additional minutes just to operate it. At least 15-20 extra minutes.
Every time I open it: “NOW WHAT?!”
I found the picture after the usual dorking around. Facebook is always frustrating.
Ten years ago there was yer “wall.” Now I guess it’s yer “home-page,” which I never look at. The dreaded “algorithm,” secret of course, is also at play. It limits content on yer home-page. Deluged by every dancing-cat video yer “friends” posted, yer home-page would blow yer computer.
I could dump my Facebook, but so many of my actual friends have Facebooks. It also seems to be the new e-mail. E-mail can’t crunch videos, yet Facebook can. It’s interesting the typical FB word-post is tiny, yet videos are megabyte city.
Two guys with whom I attended college refuse to have Facebooks. My brother in Boston also refuses. My deceased wife had one, but under an alias. She’s gone, but her Facebook continues.
Years ago a nephew and his wife had a baby. The birth was announced on Facebook. That son was age-3 when I found out.
I’m always mad at Facebook. The fact I have one at all was them playing on my ignorance — a fast-one. It also could freeze this computer, although it hasn’t for some time.
They deluge me with targeted ads. Worst are the scantily-clad hussies.
Years ago I found that a high-school classmate had a Facebook. Looking for it I unearthed acres of cleavage. They clearly weren’t my classmate.
I did find her Facebook. She said all she used it for was to keep track of family. She probably gets invites to Facebook’s clarinet group, since she played clarinet in high-school band.

• Apparently if I click “albums” in a “friend’s” Facebook, their pictures will appear in “albums.” If not, they appear singly. LA-DEE-DAH! “Trumped again, y’old geezer!”
• My wife died of cancer April 17th, 2012.