Facebook Confusion

I often find myself feeling confused by Facebook for a variety of reasons:

#1: Like or Dislike
When someone announces something really big, I feel like I should like/dislike it.  However, this gets confusing.  "Satan sucks."  Does marking "like" mean I generally don't like Satan or does it suggest that I am sacrificing animals in a secret cult gathering?  Or what if it's more personal?  "My brother past away. He will be missed."  I "like" the update and want to lend support.  However, I don't like the fact that your brother past away when in fact that is pretty damn tragic.

#2: Fringe Friends
I have no problem with people I know only vaguely leaving comments.  However, I often fear that leaving a comment on a co-workers page can be the online version of a close-talker.

#3: Former Students
I allow former students to befriend me.  We're not friends, though.  It would be creepy for us to go hang out at the mall together, which is why when I'm on Facebook I feel like I have to be extra-non-creepy and therefore I end up being standoffish toward former students.

#4: Lack of Context
I can't be political, since I have some pretty extreme left and right friends. Unlike a real social situation, I can't figure out the rules.  I know that it's okay to take a crap in the woods, but totally socially unacceptable to do so in a church service.  I know that I can cuss at a pub but I can't cuss around my wife's extended family.  This lack of context makes the rules of Facebook that much more confusing.

#5: I Don't Use It Correctly
I don't find funny stuff online, take cool pictures or do pretty much anything that you are supposed to do with Facebook.  My lack of a cell phone hurts me here, because it actually takes some effort to find and post pictures.

#6: Lack of Body Language
I can't smile without using annoying emoticons. I also can't be funny, because my humor can be dark and sardonic when there's no twinkle of an eye or smile.

#7: I Feel Guilty
When I'm on Twitter, I think of all the cool ideas to share.  It's about a conversation.  On Facebook, it's about a connection - often times with people I haven't seen in months and some of whom live in my city.  That can make me feel guilty when the distance is often mutual.

So, why do I stay on Facebook?

It's the language we collectively speak.  It's a horrible medium, but it's the only way I find out who is getting married or divorced or dying or having more kids.  It is where we post our life cycle for others to view.  So, I stick with it, even though I honestly can't figure it out.

Be a Parent

People want a Nanny State to outlaw children's toys in Happy Meals. I get it. Kids can pester parents and it becomes difficult to win the war of attrition. Still, if you think that Happy Meal toys are wrong and that you don't want your children to be enticed by cheap plastic crap from a transnational artificial food corporation, here's a thought: don't visit McDonalds. It's the option we often choose in our house and it works well.

If you think that advertising to little children is wrong, here's a solution: get rid of the television. I heard there's this amazing parental switch device on even the oldest television sets and it allows adults to turn off the television instantaneously. We have an off button at our house and it turns out that it works really well.

If you think that Harry Potter is evil and should be banned from schools, here's a solution: don't let your kids read it. It's really easy. You just tell your children to avoid the book or they'll go to Hell. Or offer to give them free pizza coupons for each one they read. Meanwhile, I'll continue reading it to my own children.

Part of being a parent is engaging in conflict. It's part of being human. It's part of living a story. Whether your concerns are liberal or conservative, traditional or progressive, natural or structured, talk to me, question me, engage me in debate, but don't push your agenda through a political process. Instead, try being a parent.

Gay Marriage

"Phil, I'm sorry to hear about your divorce."

"Me, too.  I don't know what happened.  We were in love and then . . ."

"You grew apart?"

"No."

"You had an affair?"

"No."

"What was it?"

"Gay marriage?"

"I'm not seeing your point.  Was your wife actually a lesbian?"

"No, but the mere existence of gay marriage was a threat to the institution of marriage and therefore killed our marriage."

I've known about six or seven guys who have gotten divorced in the last few years.  None of them mentioned gay marriage as the cause of their divorce.  None of them saw the institution of marriage as something frail and weak and near death.  Instead, they saw their individual actions, the incompatibility of their relationship and the larger societal pressures (time spent away, the bad economy) as contributing to their relational problems.

Christians who see gay marriage as a threat to the institution of marriage, often miss the following points:

1. Marriage is a civil and religious union.  Atheists are allowed marriage despite the fact that they don't believe in the religious union whatsoever.  Moreover, Christians and non-Christians get married quite often, despite the fact that this is considered a sin in many churches.  So, what's the point in using only the Bible 
2. Another point I'll hear is that gay people can't procreate.  This argument makes little sense.  Can elderly people get married even if they are passed their child-rearing days? Gay people, on the other hand, can adopt and often have families together.
3. The biggest "threat" to marriage is divorce.  One area where churches have some influence is in their depiction of masculinity and leadership.  Teaching men to be overbearing and controlling in the name of being the "spiritual leader" crushes a woman's spirit.  
4. The second biggest threat to marriage is people never getting married at all.  Again, the church does a poor job presenting some of the positives of marriage - how trust can lead to better sex that occurs more often, how living together for years without making a formal commitment is more laughable than sinful and how marriage can be fun.  
5. Allowing for gay marriage would be a social act of compassion.  When a child has to worry about being taken into foster care because one of her moms died or when a man can't see his partner in the later hours at the hospital, there is something wrong.  Whether the church defines it as a sin does not nullify an act of mercy toward people who love one another. 
6. When churches fight battles against gay marriage, they turn gays off to the faith entirely.  They shut off the dialog. If you call it a war, people will assume that you are making them out to be an enemy.  I can't think of the last time I took advice, especially on larger existential questions, because someone who viewed me as an enemy told me how to live.
7. Focussing so much time and energy being against one issue that the Bible hardly addresses moves the church away from issues like immigrant's rights and poverty, which the Bible addresses thousands of times.  

why trendy hipsters will save grammar

Just about every trendy hipster person I know has read Eats, Shoots and Leaves and enjoys The Oatmeal's explanations on grammar as well.  My guess is that it fits into a few key trendy hipster values:

1. A chance to feel better / look down upon others.  This is especially true with grammar geeks (like myself, who is sort-of Trendy Hipster Light) who were frowned upon by peers during their childhood.
2. A chance to engage in an art that is vastly becoming irrelevant.  Like learning shorthand, speaking Old Norse or having a typewriter on hand, learning grammar lets trendy hipsters engage in a geeky endeavor that lacks any real practical element.
3. A chance to be ironic, or when that fails (often) a chance to find unintended humor. Once you master grammar, you can mock the subtle irony found in signs, in books and in music.  So, I can laugh aloud when the football announcer mentions that "Philadelphia literally has an explosive offense" or "The Giants literally destroyed the Cowboys."  Nope, despite my initial hopes, the Cowboys are still a football team.

I have a hunch that trendy hipsters will not procreate as much as other segments of the population. Which is too bad, honestly, in terms of language lovers.  However, in the long run, they might just be the very subgroup that keeps grammar intact.

Rethinking Family

At Thanksgiving, Micah asks me, "Where's Aunt Beverly?"

He notices that Uncle Charlie is alone and he senses that something is different. I am tempted at first to use a euphamism like "passed on" or "left us" but instead I tell the truth.

"She died yesterday."

"Does that mean she's not coming back?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"But I like her. She's fun. She smiles."

He's quiet for awhile and then adds, "She always plays with me and Gabriel."

It's a three year old's eulogy and although it doesn't capture all that she was, it certainly captures a part of her that I will remember. If Micah has taught me anything about life and death, it's that people matter. I used to believe that life was a story and there were minor characters. Now I see it as an overlapping of stories, not with minor characters, but with major characters that I never got the chance to know as well as I could have (due to time and space).

Micah's right. I miss Beverly's smile on Thanksgiving. She was the first family member to giving me the passing grade when Christy first introduced me years ago. I remember that we talked about Van Morrison of all things, because even though we didn't have much in common, she wanted me to feel like I mattered.  I think about all of this as Micah runs over to play in the dirt with his cousin.  For a moment, I get teary-eyed, so I move inside to see if the Cowboys will pull out a surprise victory against the Saints.

When I first married Christy, I thought she was crazy for referring to her "relatives" as "family."  I grew up isolated from most of my extended family, so I never quite understood her language.  Over time, I began to see the value of an extended family.  It happened with swim lessons and dinners at Aunt Jan's house or with breakfast on Sunday mornings with Aunt Sheri.  When Christy completed a triathlon (pregnant, nonetheless) it was her extended family (her nephews and her Aunt Beverly) who cheered her on during the hardest moments.

I'm beginning to see that the nuclear, just-those-who-live-in-the-house view of family is limited and myopic.  It's why I feel grateful that my own kids see my parents and my sister and my wife's family so much.  It's why I recognize the gift of being two doors down from my mother-in-law.  For all the talk of recovering the sense of community lost in America, I'm convinced that for my own children the answer hasn't been found in programs or in megachurches or in master-planned communities.  It's been in the large, extended family that has collectively loved them well.

Rethinking Black Friday

We're bundled up at three thirty a.m., hoping to get the right spot so that we can all buy the cheap laptops that are sold "while supplies last," which is the legal way of saying "bait and switch."

I silently curse the man three spaces up who brought a lawn chair and space heater.  Maybe he'll die of carbon monoxide poisoning.  Dark thoughts, I know, but it's what happens when you are curled around the side of the Best Buy building, shivering beside the dumpster that smells of death.

After an hour, we shift from being arch-enemies in a capitalist competition to being comrades in the communal cold.

"How was your Thanksgiving?" I ask a stranger.

"It was bad," she answered.  "My dad always gets drunk and tells obscene jokes to the kids and so my sisters end up yelling at him until everyone drives home angry.  And you?"

"Oh, it was good."  How do you possibly top her answer?

"Mine was lonely," the man next to me adds.  "My wife passed away two months ago and I just didn't feel like being around anyone but then I didn't want to be lonely, either.

He takes out his wallet and says, "There she is.  Or was I guess.  I'm still not used to that."

"I'm sorry," I say.

"It's okay.  It's not your fault."

It's silent for awhile before he says, "This is my first time doing the whole Black Friday thing."

"Kind of sounds like the name of a metal band, huh?"

"What do you normally do on the Friday after Thanksgiving?"

"Well, we would decorate for Christmas. But in the morning my wife would wake me up and we'd make love.  She said it was the best cure for a hangover.  So last night I just crashed on the couch.  I just didn't want to wake up in bed.  But I couldn't sleep.  So I thought I'd take a shot at getting a cheap computer or something."

"Makes sense."

"No, it doesn't make any sense.  I always thought women were supposed to shop to heal pain."

We stand in silence for another half an hour, neither of us feeling much like talking.  Both of us missing our wives.  I look at the sign again.  Best Buy.  I've got it all wrong.  If I really want to buy into what's best, I'll leave the line, hop in the car and cuddle up next to my wife.  

But I wait even longer and I lack the energy and overt selfishness to push away fellow patrons and snatch exactly what I want.  So, I leave early, lost in the dark fray of humanity pushing and shoving and yelling at one another.

I drive to QT, pick up my free donut and realize how easily I was duped.

I refuse to make the lowest price my bottom line.

She Was Reading

I used to believe that identity was something we choose and form and shape by our own will.  It bothered me to no end that society and family and environment shaped our stories so much.  So, I simply believed otherwise, opting for a philosophy of self-reliance.  Still, I couldn't shake the notion that who I am is, to a large degree, based upon those around me.

With that in mind, I wrote the following piece:

She Was Reading

She was Reading, a bookish child whose fate was sealed by the solitary pronouncement of two pseudo-bohemians who never should have procreated. Bored and restless with the vapid poetry of the smoky jazz houses, they grew tired of looking tired and restless with the restlessness. She was their avante-gard project.

She did everything within her power to grow out of her name, trying to live out her cartoon fantasies of an image-bound future of visual media and technocratic cyber codes and Twitter in all its simple glory and the melodramatic Lifetime movies her dad would watch when no one was looking. But alas, she was Reading. All the time. Everywhere. She couldn't escape the magical icons crying out each monosyllabic utterance, an abstract chorus creating meaning and worlds and memories in an eternal flame she could never extinguish. She was Reading.

Growing up, her dad had read her Atlas Shrugged, because the folks in Whoville seemed bound too closely to the meter and rhyme of an impostor doctor drawing saggy-chested women who seemed too realistic a representation of a coffee shop crowd past its prime. Her mom read her Pride and Prejudice, not to offer an insight, but to cleanse the palate afterward and prepare her for the day that she could grow into The Color Purple. She wore the heavy, industrial verbiage like a child's costume jewelry and by fifth grade she had realized her parents couldn't see how gaudy it had become in an age where nouns were already becoming verbs and a text was anything but sacred.

Sometimes she would step out onto the grass, barefoot with freshly painted toe nails, envious of the militaristic marching ants who had freedom in their lack of freedom. She took serious the call to consider the lilies, not for romantic impulses or for the sense of spirituality, but to shut out the stream of letters. And even then, when she closed her eyes, the words appeared in red-letter Garamound. She considered it sacrilige and so she would imagine a short, portly man yelling at a crowd in a language she couldn't understand. But inevitably she saw the red letters.

If words could create reality she had no need for a creative destruction but simply an escape. She recalled St. Paul. "The letter kills but the breath creates life." And she'd pray to the Unknown for a flash of light on a Damascus Road to blind her from her typographic typecast.

Fantasy. Embrace. Flower. Incense. Rosary. Polaroid. Clay. Stained-glass windows. Kodachrome.

She turned to vinyl before it was vintage and listened impatiently through an album just to hear the repetitive scratch, cycling quietly, wordless in form and flavor and texture as if to tell, even Frank Sinatra, "I can outlast your words." It was her cathedral of scratch and she dreaded the notion that club DJs had turned a sound so pure into a formal structure - pimped out this beautiful silent non-silence to the coked-up college kids dry humping to banal beats like a puppy on a warm blanket.

She pulled out a Moleskin her brother had bought her and she began the violent swirl that would eventually disguise itself as a very feminine ivy. Yet, mindlessly, she began to form a letter, not a noticable letter, just a lower-case "l" or perhaps a "q" in waiting. Methodically, melodically matching each stroke with the cadence of the city bus where she tried to focus on the urine-soaked passenger who mumbled gigantic curses against capitalism and socialism and nationalism and any ism he could muster up in the moment.

Paragraphs and pages. Ink bleeding black, words flowing into one another in a cursive she hadn't felt since she was in the primary grades. Drunk on the words, she woke up in a daze, head pounding, the Moleskin tatooed with lines she was afraid to read. "It was merely mental masturbation," she wrote.

Alliteration.

Metaphor.

"Okay maybe a bad one night stand. This isn't love."

She hid the notebook in her satchel and began to crochet, but even the repetitive hip hop on her tiny earbuds seemed to tell the same nihilistic narrative in the same iamb of a Shakespeare tragedy and without thinking, she began thinking and reciting and enjoying the rhapsody.

"You can't escape who you are," she wrote, then crossed out the "you" in thick, drippy ink and wrote "one" as if to say, "I can't take ownership of the first person. Not yet."

"One can't escape who she is," she rewrote it, until eventually it became first person. "I can't escape who I am."

Perhaps she could wean herself. Find a paperback action thriller or check out the latest soccer mom craze, be it wizards or sexy vampires or Oprah's monthly choice. Or maybe she'd find a detox between red rock canyon walls, a desert place where words could not break-in and she'd find solace in her yoga and hiking.

She fell in love, like an awkward virgin couple on a honeymoon, uncertain about whether it was any good and scared about venturing further, but still feeling that faint sense of normalcy. She was Reading.