Facebook – Social Network or Promotional Network?

I’ve been on Facebook for a few years now, but never really took to the site. I have email to keep in touch with friends, and my Blog lets me voice opinions. But then I saw the Facebook movie, “The Social Network”, and was friended on the site by my college age daughter. I learned I'd been using Facebook entirely wrong.
Facebook is intended as a social network, not a promotional network.
In the movie, college students rush like lemmings to use Facebook, primarily as a way to see who’s single. It’s not exactly a dating site, because only people you invite to be a friend have access to your details. That makes it exclusive to whoever you choose. (I know you can change privacy settings so the whole world can see your goodies, but you can also keep things tight and close.)
My daughter and her friends use it to keep in touch, organize activities, or find out when someone signs up for something fun. Pundits talk about the mob mentality, but I don't see that with my daughter and her friends. They make independent choices, then comment liberally on each other’s lives. They are connected as friends, and that’s it.
When I look at my Facebook wall, I don't see anything remotely social about it. It seems some of the more vocal people I've friended simply write about causes, events, and projects they want others to support. They use it as a promotional tool. That’s fine and dandy in small doses, but when it’s practically the only use? It’s not social at all.
For instance, on my daughter’s Facebook wall, I can learn about:

• A college football game she and her friends attended
• A fun activity she did with her dorm
• A party she'll be attending later this month, that she and her friends are excited about
• Her friends delighting in each other’s lives

My wall, on the other hand, has things like this from my Facebook friends:

• Someone pimping a new tech product
• Someone twittering about what they drank tonight
• Plenty of bloggers announcing their latest post (mea culpa – I do that too)
• Someone promoting a book that just came out

Where are the parties? Where are the mixers? Where are the photos for me to make fun of?
Where oh where are the single women who would love nothing more than a good guy like me to flirt and ask them out on a date? (Maybe we even flirt in real life after we both sign up for the same activity.)                            
I am thinking about changing the way I use Facebook. Rather than promotional networking, I want to start doing some social networking.
And so, it might be time for me to unfriend the people I don't know, have never met, and won't interact with socially. It’s time to remove connections to people who are promoting stuff I don't care about.
And it’s time to start expanding my social network by friending some interesting, fun people who I have the potential to meet in real life. Who knows, maybe we'll even go on a date.
First things first, I'll make sure my relationship status is appropriately set: single.
And if you're a Facebook social butterfly, feel free to give me some tips on how to best use the site.

Desire

I would do what I pleased, and doing what I pleased, I should have my will, and having my will, I should be contented; and when one is contented, there is no more to be desired; and when there is no more to be desired, there is an end of it.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

What a Dad Needs to Know About His Daughter

When my nineteen-year-old daughter told me she had a boyfriend, I was thrilled. Not only for her, since dating is a normal part of growing up, but for me, too. That I was in the loop meant our father daughter relationship was healthy and strong. Right?
Not so fast. I hadn’t yet met her boyfriend.

At first, that didn’t bother me. After all, I’m a single dad on the dating scene, and I don’t introduce my daughter to every woman I meet. But some Dad’s House readers said a teen daughter thrives when her father shows an interest in her life. Great point!

I asked my daughter, her friends, and some of my girlfriends to give me hot tips for fathers with teen girls. Here’s what they said.

What a Dad Needs to Know About His Daughter

Sex – we all know collage kids think about sex, even the ones with purity rings. A dad should know his daughter’s attitude about sex. Where is she getting her sex education? If from girlfriends, is the sex knowledge good, or is she being misinformed? And of course, is she having sex? (Good luck on that one.)

I talked to my daughter about sex when she was a preteen, and we've had conversations since. When a father daughter sex talk is uncomfortable for either party, make sure she has someone to talk to – her mom, an aunt, an adult female friend. Someone you trust. A dad needs to know his daughter is getting accurate and appropriate information about sex.

Boys – how are they treating her? How is she treating them? To find out, you can talk to her, eavesdrop, monitor her Facebook page. Also, if she does co-ed activities like track, drama, or band, go watch! Just promise you won't do anything that mortifies her. (I quote my daughter on that.)


Tampons – if you're a single dad, you might want to know where she keeps these. My daughter ran out once, and asked me to dash to the store on her behalf. Now I keep an eye on her supply, and help her stock up accordingly.

Beauty stuff – my daughter is beautiful, the apple of my eye. I compliment her daily. Still, teen girls are at an age when they may want to experiment with changing their look. Make-up, clothing, hair styles, nails. Even tom-boys might be curious.

For a dad to tell his daughter that she might want to change her hair or wear some make-up could send her a mixed message. Is she not good enough in his eyes? But, for a dad to accept that his daughter wants to experiment with her looks brings validation. Big difference. Just don't expect her to let you take her to the mall for beauty stuff. Better if she goes with a woman. I once sent my daughter on a clothes shopping spree with a buddy’s wife. It was a huge success.

Girlfriends, yours – a single dad’s daughter might want to know her father is dating, but she certainly doesn't need to hear every gory detail or sexy and funny story. She’s your daughter, not your confidante. My daughter said she doesn't want daily or weekly updates on my dating life, but if I've been seeing the same woman for a month, I should mention it.

Girlfriends, hers – don't tell your daughter that one of her girlfriends is hot. That’s creepy! Don't flirt with her girlfriends, either. (Moms shouldn't flirt with teen boys.) If you need a reminder on this one, go watch American Beauty. Enough said.

Details of her daily life – my daughter and her friends hate when a parent doesn't even know what classes they're enrolled in. If you ask about biology when she’s taking chemistry, you're clueless.

After school – where is your daughter hanging out? What’s she doing? If she says she’s working on homework with a friend, but then stays up all hours working on homework, maybe you're getting the runaround. Teen responsibility is something learned, and sometimes needs parental guidance.

What matters to her – a dad needs to know what his daughter thinks is important. Is she obsessed with saving animals? Fixated on boys? Can't get enough soccer? Whatever her passion, take an interest. Listen. Encourage her. Show up.

Some of my daughter’s friends have dads who have never attended one of her high school soccer games. That’s really sad. I know people are busy, but your daughter only grows up once. Make an effort to be present in her life, especially for something that’s important to her. Be a proud parent.

What she says – what your daughter says isn't necessarily what she means. According to my daughter: “you don't have to come” means she wants me to come, but is giving me an out if I can't make it. “Don't come!” means don't come. And “yes, come” means dammit, I better be there! Listen to her intonation, and hear what she means, not what she says.

Bottom line: A daughter wants to know (!) her father cares about her.

Now then, all you female readers who had dads, please weigh in with your corrections or validations! I'm learning this stuff as I go.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

Becoming Responsible Adults

Becoming responsible adults is no longer a matter of whether children hang up there pajamas or put dirty towels in the hamper, but whether they care about themselves and others -- and whether they see everyday chores as related to how we treat this planet.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

The Problem With Music

1. It would take a lot of work to stop the world, and I can't see why a person would go to all that trouble just to melt with someone.

2. When Freddie Mercury sang, “Each morning I get up I die a little,” he was terribly vague. Given that he died at age 45, which means he woke up roughly 16,425 times, there has to be a precise unit of measurement for EXACTLY how much he died each morning. I’m not a math guy, but I feel like the song would be a lot more legitimate if Freddie sang, “Each morning I get up I die by approximately 0.00491 percent.”

3. Tom Petty, the Foo Fighters, and Pink Floyd each have songs about learning to fly but none of them says anything about how to land. Tom Petty says, “Comin’ down is the hardest thing,” which…you know…no SHIT, Tom.

4. “Where it began, I can’t begin to knowin’.” Neil, it’s a fine song and all but who the hell talks like that? I’ve been inclined (bop-bop-baaaah!) to believe Caroline thinks you’re a hick.

5. There is no such thing as “nine in the afternoon.”

6. I don’t know about whom The Black Crowes are singing in “She Talks To Angels,” but the notion that “she gives a smile when the pain comes” is patently absurd. It’s a wince, you idiots. People wince when they’re in pain. It’s the same as when babies wince when they have to fart and the deluded mommies and daddies thing the baby is smiling at them. Friggin’ dolts.

7. “Good morning, sun. I am a bird wearing a brown polyester shirt.” Good morning, Ben Folds. I am a psychiatrist wearing a neutral-colored sweater so as not to agitate my patients. I’d like you to come in and see me. It would seem that you could benefit from some chemical intervention.

8. Of course the landslide brought you down, Stevie. It’s a fucking landslide!

9. Mr. Young MC, sir, if that is indeed your real name, the challenge to “come on, fatso, and just bust a move” is both vague and incredibly insensitive. The more politically correct sentence would be, “so come on, portly gentleman, and just invite the attractive female to come to your home and loofah your stretchmarks.”

10. If I am to believe that she’s buying a stairway to heaven, I’d like to see her financial records. That thing would cost billions, guys, and unless she is obnoxiously wealthy, this whole project is a joke. Plus, think of all the permits she’d need.

Attitude

People grow old only by deserting their ideals, Macarthur had written. Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up interest wrinkles the soul. You are as young as your faith, as old as your doubt; as young as your self-confidence, as old as your fear; as young as your hope as old as your despair. In the central place of every heart there is a recording chamber. So long as it receives messages of beauty, hope, cheer and courage, so long are you young. When your heart is covered with the snows of pessimism and the ice of cynicism, then, and then only, are you grown old. And then, indeed as the ballad says, you just fade away.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

A Realistic View of the Effect of Diabetes

I found out I had diabetes in 1999. I was having chest pains and had a procedure done. Through all the tests, they found the diabetes. It wasn't easy at first, changing my lifestyle, food and way of thinking; my blood sugars (glucose) are always high. I found I needed to talk with someone who has diabetes also, to share my concerns, and listen to me and to hear what they had to say. I don't think people who are not diabetic understand a lot of what we feel and go through.

I am going through depression right now, I have high blood pressure, so it is not just the diabetes I'm dealing with. I know people don't like reading stories where things are not all rosy, but the truth is, diabetes isn't rosy.

We are in a fight for our lives, to keep our sight, our limbs and our hearts healthy and watch our carb intake, and keep our blood sugar down, it's a daily fight, but I am ready and willing to keep up the good fight--to do what it takes to make a good life.

Little Tom And His Short Temper

I was ordering my iced venti decaf soy latte the other morning when I heard the distinctive sounds of smooching and kanoodling behind me. I turned around to see the source of the PDA (public display of affection) and what I saw will be seared into my memory for all eternity: a tall redhead with a nose ring embraced in a lip-locked death match with a leathered-out biker dude who was – no joke – a good eight inches shorter than she. Picture Nicole Kidman making out with Gary Coleman and you're in the right ballpark.
I have lived in Southern California for my whole life and that means I have had to see a lot of really weird shit and a lot of really strange people. I once saw a kid pull his glass eye out of his head, put it in his mouth to clean it off and then pop it back into his eye socket. I was once browsing in a sex shop (for the articles, of course) when a 400-pound woman with a purple Mohawk and a tongue stud, an employee of the establishment, walked over and asked me if I had any questions about the merchandise. I played pool in a bar one time against a guy who had iron cross tattoos on his face. On his fucking face!

Yet in spite of the daily parade of freaks and weirdos and outcasts that has passed in front of me, I have never before seen a guy who was so completely dwarfed by his girlfriend. His head was looking straight up at her and hers was straight down at him. And they were kissing and holding hands and crushing on each other like minxes.

You know what came next, of course: suppressed laughter. It was as if someone had farted in church.

The barista who was taking my money saw the look on my face and we both looked away from one another immediately. Eye contact would have unleashed a torrent of laughter neither of us could have stopped. We didn’t want to make a scene.

So I got my receipt and stepped aside while they made my coffee and you know what came next, of course: that little bastard order chocolate milk. Chocolate fucking milk!

Well, at this point I just lost it. And the barista lost it. And the guy who was reading the Wall Street Journal in the big, cushy brown chair lost it. And the three teenagers immersed in their before-school bible study lost it. And the little chocolate milk guy looked around, wondering what everyone was laughing about.

Through the cacophony of laughter and tears and snot and people mouthing the words “chocolate milk” to each other in silence, the barista asked Little Chocolate Milk Guy what his name was so she could write it on his cup.

And he said his name was Tom. Tom! As in “Tom Thumb!”

And you know what came next: Little Tom The Chocolate Milk Guy got pissed. He discovered that we were laughing at his little ass and his little boy drink and the pathetic way he looked up at his girlfriend and he just went batshit. Straws and napkins and holiday knick-knacks started flying everywhere. I got drilled in the ear by a biscotti. A piece of jellied orange from the top of the holiday gingerbread went flying through the front page of the guy’s Wall Street Journal. Yep, Little Tom was having a little tantrum.

After a few minutes, Little Tom’s big girlfriend picked him up by a belt loop and got him to calm the fuck down and find his happy place. She leaned down and kissed him on the top of his little over-Moussed head and convinced him to just finish ordering and leave. He agreed, in part because she was way bigger than him and he didn’t have much choice.

And you know what came next, of course: the barista got down real low, looked Little Tom right in the face and said, “So did you want that chocolate milk in a sippy cup, little guy?"

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

A Daughter Turns Dad Around

I was totally burned-out on the whole diabetes thing to the point I stopped taking the medication on a regular basis. When I went for a routine check-up, my sugar level was so high that my doctor gave me 4 years before I would need a kidney transplant. As any of us can attest to, getting more bad news on top of this disease was a devastating blow for me. The mere idea of having to wait for another person to die so I could enjoy not doing the right thing for a bit longer was too much. I started planning my eventual demise because I was tired of watching what I had to eat every second of the day and being a slave to the medications. I wanted my regular life back until my daughter had a heart-to-heart talk with me, stating that she was not ready to have her father leave this world until he had done everything within his power to stay. My daughter was the one that got me back on track. It's for her that I now go walking 3 times a week. It's for her that I take the stairs and not the elevator. And it's for her that I now exercise more control and discipline about coping with diabetes

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

Lonely

You want to think and say that you have everytning you need, but then you realize that something is missing, someone is missing... and once you think you've found it, it goes and disappears on you and you don't understand what to do or even where to start looking for that missing piece of the puzzle. You sit at home in lonely frustration and you just wait...wait...and wait. No where to look, no one to look for.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

Switched On

With all due respect to the agency that created it, I’ve altered Home Depot’s slogan to better reflect my own history with it: The Home Depot—You can screw it up, we can help. I do not belong in a “home improvement warehouse” because to me home improvement is a concept to be feared, like midget porn and family vacations. I don’t like it, I don’t know how to do it, and I am rendered horrified by my own failure whenever I attempt to do it.

About two years ago I was here to purchase a ceiling fan for our living room because we thought it might help us reduce our electric bill by enabling us to use the air conditioner less frequently. I spent an entire weekend assembling the thing and hanging it from the ceiling, and by Sunday afternoon all that was left was to make the appropriate electrical connections. That was the first—and until now, the last—time I ever touched anything electrical in our house. See, our house was built in 1963 and in those days people must have been really short—like Oompa-Loompa short—because our “attic” is more like a death trap. There’s only about two feet of vertical space up there and the nails used to adhere the synthetic roof tiles to the house poke straight through, creating the very real possibility of being impaled whenever I go up there. Naturally, the entrance to the crawl space is on the east end of the house and the electrical junction box I needed to access was on the west end of the house. Despite spending almost an hour in the hundred-degree crawl space, I finally managed to twist the appropriate wires together and make the ceiling fan whirl. I excitedly began the long crawl back to the exit, and when I got about two little scootches from there, I put the size eight Nike on my right foot straight through the ceiling. My leg was junk-deep in the hallway outside Breana’s room. “Can I help you find something, sir?” asks the man in the orange apron. He’s older than the typical employee here, maybe in his early sixties, but he’s got big muscles.

“Hi, uh, yeah. I’m looking for a switch.”

“A switch? Well, we’ve got lots’a switches. What kind ya lookin’ fer?”

(Another accent to decipher. I’m going to guess Texas. West Texas. El Paso, maybe.)

“Just a light switch,” I say. “Think the one in my garage is fried.”

“Yeah, well, that’ll happen,” he says. “Let’s take a walk down to Electrical.”

“Oh, it’s OK. You don’t have to escort me all the way down there. I think I can find it.”

“Ya sure? It’s no trouble.”

“I’m sure,” I say. “Thanks for the help.”

“Not a problem.”

Not for him, maybe. But for me? Big problem. Big! If there’s more than one variety of light switch in that aisle, I’m completely hosed. I clearly would have loved to have an escort to show me what kind of switch I need, but the problem with these damned Home Depot employees is their expectation that you have at least a scintilla of an idea what you’re trying to accomplish. I have no such thing. I have only my ignorance and my credit card and my resolve to be a better man. A better homeowner, too.

Fortunately there is really only one kind of light switch. I get it home and show it to Breana, as if I’m about to impart some of my wisdom so that she might be able to replace a light switch in her own home someday (assuming I don’t electrocute her first).

“…and see this thing right here? That’s the on-off switch. The lights go on when you flip it up and off when you flip it down. Cool, huh?”

“I already know that, dad,” she says with a frustrated eye roll as she turns her attention back to her iPad.

“OK,” I say. “Well…good chat, Pumpkin.”



The disciplines of home improvement that terrify me most are plumbing and electrical, which, with the exception of patching drywall when people stick their legs through it, comprise the majority of repairs in our fifty-year-old house. The reasons to fear these two minefields are rather obvious to me—plumbing mistakes flood the house and electrical mistakes fry people. That’s why I’m having such a difficult time convincing myself to install this new light switch in the garage. I know the steps I must take in order to protect myself—starting with turning off the power to that part of the house—but I’m generally a nervous person and I cannot banish from my mind the image of myself as a house fly and the wires in this light switch as one of those fluorescent blue lights that make flies like me spontaneously combust on contact.

Despite my reservations, I have killed the power, unscrewed the plastic overlay, and carefully pulled the existing switch out of its metal housing. There are two wires connecting the switch to the electricity—one red, one white. To a seasoned household repair ninja like my brother Paul, changing out a dead switch like this is about as challenging as scratching your balls. That’s why I’ve always called him when I need something like this (and perhaps why he looks at me like I’m helpless idiot whenever he comes over to repair shit). But this is a new time. I am a new man. I’m taking responsibility for my own home. And to me, this looks like a scene out of The Hurt Locker. I’ve just opened a car trunk loaded with seven improvised explosive devices powerful enough to turn my whole existence into a fine red mist, and now my survival depends on carefully removing the red and white wires without so much as a twitch. I produce a small flathead screwdriver (despite the screws being threaded for a Phillips head screwdriver) and slowly begin to loosen the screw connecting the white wire. After a half-dozen turns, the white wire pops free. I close my eyes and wait for the explosion, but it never comes. Because I’m that good.

I then turn my attention to the red wire, and since red is the color of blood and the devil and a smacked bottom, my muscles tighten. I slowly begin turning the screw to the left (I remember learning this phrase in junior high: “Righty tighty, lefty loosie.”) (But at the time I thought it mean left-handed girls were looser.) and suddenly I feel a bead of sweat form on my brow and start sliding down the bridge of my nose. I want badly to wipe it away but I’m dealing with lethal electrical force here and I know even the slightest twitch could kill me. Or worse. I continue to unscrew while the sweat slowly slides over my nose. It tickles. It itches. But I persevere until the red wire shoots free, and with one jerk of my head the sweat plummets to its death on the garage floor.

“Hey, Breana!” I holler a few minutes later.

“Hey what?”

“Can you come out to the garage for a sec? I want to show you something!”

She appears. There’s a look of apprehension about her, but I’m smiling when she sees me and that seems to disarm her.

“Go ahead,” I say, pointing at the light switch proudly. “Give it a try.”

She smiles.

Her eyes open wide, as if turning that switch will make the sky open up and unleash a hailstorm of hundred-dollar bills. With her eyes open wide, she flips the switch.

And nothing happens.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

What is REAL?

What is REAL?' asked the Rabbit one day, 'Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out
handle?''Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.[...] 'Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,' he asked, 'or bit by bit?''It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to the people who don't understand.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

I'm Not A Smart Man

This morning I did something stupid and careless and completely out of character for me.

Some community college kid cut me off in traffic, twice, nearly causing an accident the first time, both times wearing a big smile on his face like he was proud of his recklessness and malfeasance, so I followed him to his destination and confronted him.

“Proud of yourself, you stupid, emo, Flock of Seagulls asshat?” I yelled, although I was certain the reference would be lost on him. “You trying to kill someone or what?”

“Fuck you,” he said unimaginatively. Clearly not an English major.

“Fuck me? Fuck me? Am I the one who blew through a right turn only lane and cut me off by six inches? Am I the one endangering people who had kids in the car two minutes before you pulled that shit? No, Depeche Moron. That was you.”

You should have seen this kid. His long hair was colored no fewer than six different shades, he had big white plugs in his earlobes, and everything visible was pierced. He was wearing eye makeup. His fingernails were painted black. I don’t know what the kids are calling this particular style nowadays, but let’s call it Daddy Never Loved Me And Mommy Turned Tricks For Fruit Loops And Won’t Somebody PLEASE Give Me Some Attention.

“Did you really just follow me?” he asked incredulously, like I was some idiot for doing so, which may in fact be true. “Jesus, get a life, old man.”

“I have a life, you ten-dollars-a-unit Shithole Studies major. And I’m trying to keep it in spite of careless bastards like yourself. Now run along to class before your mascara runs into your box of clove cigarettes, Jesus and Mary Chain.”

(This is the part where I really would like to tell you that I peeled out of the parking lot like a pimp but what really happened is that I put my Honda in “drive”, checked my blind spots, and slowly, cautiously crawled away with my hands at exactly ten o’clock and two o’clock on the steering wheel.)

Anyway, I never got out of my car because I realized nothing good would have come of that. I didn’t want to fight the guy, and I clearly wouldn’t have pulled this stupid stunt if anyone else were in my car. But I just needed the kid to know he doesn’t get to endanger my life and just drive off.

It was, as stipulated above, a stupid move on my part. I feel lame for having done it because you never know who has a gun in the car in Southern California and I could very well be writing this blog entry from the morgue. 

Loving Relationship

A loving relationship is one in which the loved one is free to be himself -- to laugh with me, but never at me; to cry with me, but never because of me; to love life, to love himself, to love being loved. Such a relationship is based upon freedom and can never grow in a jealous heart.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]