Facebook Friends

It's been said that Facebook friends aren't “real” friends, but I strongly disagree. Often the friends we see in person are from a very limited pool...workplace friends, neighbors, other people sleeping under the bridge next to us (OK, that one is probably just me). We have friends from college, clubs, organizations, etc. But our Facebook friends, the ones we count on seeing regularly, the friends we really want to hear from, are friends with whom we resonate in a special way. These are relationships that we have chosen not out of physical proximity, but because we very much want them in our lives

If Carol didn't pop up at least 26 times a day with interesting tidbits, retro photos, musical whimsy and over the top clever verbiage, it would be a huge loss for me. Orlando, Mark and Oscar post their own photographs which run the gamut from breathtakingly gorgeous to raw and gritty. If Richard didn't question almost everything we take for granted, I probably wouldn't grow in ways that make me a better person. Glenn is our very own built in Snopes. He checks the facts 12 different ways and lets me know that almost everything I say is wrong. Kevin keeps it light and Yvonne keeps it tight. Nick and Alex are amazing artists. When I see their work, although very different, it causes me to think of things way beyond the canvas, things I can only see in my mind's eye. My sister Judy has started painting in her retirement and will be joining them soon in art galleries around the world. Jeff is so busy making Molotov cocktails in his mind, I'm surprised he has any time at all to post his raw rebellion (fueled by real cocktails). I believe an agent from Homeland Security lives in a van parked in front of his house. Ce checks in from Thailand with tails and tales of LoveBird the chicken while Jon and Kurtis work their asses off for charity and great causes. Those guys cause me to think that perhaps watching endless reruns of the Porter Wagoner Show may not be the best possible use of my time. Brian helps to keep it alternative and real. Of course the three favorite people in my life are indispensable Facebook friends: Carla, Ruth and Hannah. Carla's interests are like her, out of the box and awesome, as are her excellent writing skills. Ruth lends class and beauty to my Facebook page as she does with everything in life. Hannah is the gypsy who provides insight into places and cultures all over the world that I'll probably only see through her eyes.

One common thread here is the fact that these are all highly intelligent, creative people, and that works for me. I need contrast in order to know what I'm missing.

And there are so many more. So yes, Virginia, Facebook friends are real, and I would be lost without them. Many thanks to all of you, my friends.

OOPS!

There's a lady I've been seeing a few times a week for the last several years. She's pretty, smart, and has a great smile if you can get her to use it. But no, don't start getting all excited for a scandal here, she's just one of the many people we all get to know through our daily routines.

The older guy at the hardware store who talks too loud and walks a bit sideways like a crab, the plant lady who tells me all the horrible things I'm doing wrong in my garden, that tall guy who owns “Mailboxes ETC”, a chick magnet for older ladies who come in to buy one envelope as an excuse to listen to his flattery, or maybe my friend who owns “Vick's Crab House”. He's my age so we compare notes about our lives. He speaks in loud soliloquy about the problems he's having with his "prostrate" even though I don't respond, all the while lifting crabs from a large white chest and dropping them into a brown paper bag as they pinch and fight his metal tongs. Coincidentally, his name is Vick.

These are the people of our daily lives.

Anyway, I see my attractive friend, Sharon, at Publix where she works part time as a checker and most afternoons at the counter in their liquor store next door. We joke with each other, talk about our kids. We also belong to the same gym so I see her there too.

Yesterday I was pushing myself up a steep incline on a treadmill by the rear wall of Planet Fitness and saw Sharon with her back to me, two rows up on a stationary bike. I recognized her haircut and color. While she was peddling away, a long haired guy, probably in his late 40's, as I believe she is too, was speaking with her in a familiar way. I assumed him to be her husband, whom I've never met. After I finished up with the treadmill, I moved back toward the stretching area and saw Mr. Sharon mulling over his choices at the dumbell rack. On a whim, I went up to him, expecting to introduce myself and say nice things about his gracious wife. Looking for a laugh I started in: “Good morning! Hey I just wanted to let you know that I have a big crush on your wife!” He looked puzzled so I followed up with: “Yea, we've been seeing each other several times a week for the last few years. We rendezvous at the liquor store next to Publix!” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, the lady that I had thought was Sharon walked by and said to him "Honey, I'm going to get a stretch and then be ready to go."

It wasn't Sharon

I didn't know this guy and definitely didn't know his wife...predictably, things went downhill from there...

No shirt, No Shoes, No Problem...II

The log cabin was circa 1729, the main house, 1853. Nothing worked. Not the Jerry-rigged electrical systems, certainly not the pluming. The heating was sketchy and dangerous. But working on “K” Street in downtown DC, had me canned up in a suit for which this place provided the opener. Five acres of wilderness on the edge of bedroom communities with houses packed tighter than a Japanese subway. After a long commute home, sometimes only inches at a time on the beltway, I would pull into that front yard, step out of the car as it started to cool...small popping sounds peppering the layers of desperate love songs sung by a thousand cicada choruses, and I could pee in any direction. Exhaling the city and carbon monoxide, inhaling clean air scented by the twin Cedars that shared hammock duty on the lawn, I would turn toward the faint sound of music coming from inside the house, knowing that all I cared about most in this world was in there. Carla and the girls, pink from hot baths, immersed in their own world of children's books and craft projects, all of which would be dropped to the floor when I walked inside. You would think it was Christmas morning and I was Santa... but they were the ones giving me presents, presents that for me were, well, everything.

Half Life in a Loud Shirt...

As we get older, we fade. The hair goes white, if it even hangs around at all. Skin pales as we avoid the sun out of concern that we don't want to finance a new boat for the dermatologist. Women have makeup to color in the lines. Their lips and nails can pop with 1,000 different shades, new hair colors are available to reflect any whim. But men become translucent. Sometimes I feel like little more than a walking pair of pants and shirt. My reflection in a glass storefront is almost headless, just a puff of ghost smoke clouded around my collar. And that's why old guys wear loud shirts. They color us in and reflect our spirit much more accurately than our half-life bodies. So I was happy to get this new shirt from Carla. It helps to convey my spirit of “I'm old but my give-a-shit-level is so low that it may be best for you if you don't try to push my buttons” at least that's what I hope my loud shirt says. In reality it's probably asking for directions to the nearest bathroom.

Whispers...

I work two days a week as a site agent for a home builder in a quiet neighborhood that gets no traffic. To go several days without speaking to anyone other than my dogs is not unusual. Carla's often away on assignment working at Shands Hospital in Gainesville on five to eight day shifts. The only words I spoke today were “20028”. That's my member number at the gym. Since that 6AM dissertation it's all been soliloquy. This afternoon I thought I heard someone sing several notes, barely perceptible above the low hiss of the forced air murmuring down from the overhead ducts. Again! I heard the lilting tease... notes so weak they must be cried by a sickly child sulking in an upstairs closet, face down on a pile of dirty bedclothes. Maybe someone is hugging the outside wall behind me, lost in hushed love songs to the brown stucco... maybe it's just a dog walker more than a block away, a sing song humming fragile on the wind. But the truth holds no part of such fanciful speculation. The whispers are of my own making, in my own head, and would go unheard if others were near. The ghost songs are the unhealthy fruit of the solitude itself, fertilized and encouraged to grow by its own consumption. 

Canterbury Tales

A friend from High School put up a post on FB, asking about our memories of the 1960's. Oddly, perhaps, this was my first thought...

I was just hanging out in my bedroom at home one night in 1964 or 65, a junior in High School. A floor to ceiling bookshelf dominated the wall opposite my bed, holding old books that mostly attracted dust. On the second row up from the floor, about 12 books in from the right, sat a tattered copy of Canterbury Tales, bound in a stained green jacket. It had always been there, a part of the landscape, like the cast iron cat that held the door open. As with many things we collect along the way and assign to a particular spot in the house, no one ever paid any attention to those books. Except for me. I had hollowed out the inside of Mr Chaucer's Tales and entrusted him with the safekeeping of my baggie of pot. That book was my stash safe. So anyway, my Dad came to my open door one evening and asked: “Don't we have an old copy of Canterbury Tales here somewhere?” Turning to the bookshelf, he started scanning the shelves. Apparently he needed to use it as a reference for one of the many New York Times crossword puzzles he wrestled with every night. My sirens went off as I exploded from zero to sixty in less than a second. Knowing that my Dad was a bit irrational about our dog ever getting loose, I jumped up excitedly: “Did you hear that? I think the dog is outside! She must have gotten out!” Dad immediately turned and rushed toward the front door and out onto the lawn to investigate. At the same time, I ran into the kitchen and scooped up Lucy, the flatulent old dachshund, from her dog bed and threw her unceremoniously out the back door. Then I ran upstairs to the living room where Dad had been sitting, and knocked over his glass of Coke onto the folded NY Times, drenching the crossword puzzle and much of the coffee table. Damn cat. Then it was back down to my room to hide the Chaucer.

So Dad retrieved the dog, cursed the cat, cleaned the table, threw out the soggy paper, and was back in La La land whistling and tapping his feet along with Lawrence Welk in less than 15 minutes. I was back on my bed, lounging, trying to get my heart to return to its normal rhythm... but that took considerably longer than 15 minutes....