Sunday, May 18, 2008
Addicted to Facebook
When Hannes first suggested it, I scoffed. Facebook is for teenagers. What was he doing on Facebook so much? Months went by. He was still glued, locked in a trance. Eventually, he picked up my computer, gave me a username and password, and I was in.
I now have 163 "friends" and believe it or not, all but about three people are actually friends. There is Patrick Ochieng, of course. I know a Patrick Ochieng, but evidently not the one who is my Facebook friend. I met the "real" Patrick Ochieng in Kenya. He runs an NGO in Mombasa. I accidentally befriended Patrick Ochieng of Toronto -- half Kenyan and half Ugandan. I know nothing more about him, but when we discovered the mistake (he discovered it rather, wondering with great interest why a whacko from New York would want to be his Facebook friend) we decided to remain friends. Every Kenyan-Ugandan-Canadian should have a New York whacko, like me.
Truthfully, my 163 Facebook friends are not demanding of my time. And Facebook has helped me reconnect with some incredible people, including my high school photography teacher. But who could have predicted that I would be on Facebook for hours waiting for my friends to make a move in my many ongoing scrabulous games? The addiction escalated quickly. I browbeat others who were staunchly opposed to wasting time on social networking sites into joining Facebook. I started scrabble games with them. I feel kind of sad when I see those friends lurking online, waiting for me (or some new Facebook addict I've introduced them to) to take my next scrabulous move.
I took on new Facebook hobbies. There was Dope Wars and Texas Hold 'Em. Now I had never played poker in my life before Facebook (nor had I been a drug dealer for that matter). Poker was too complicated. But there I was in the midst of an adreneline rush, sitting at a poker table with a bunch of strangers and trying my best not to lose the free 500 chips I'd gotten for the day. I still have no idea how to play poker, despite I find myself in the virtual Bellagio Hotel or Mirage at least once per day. Somehow I actually won today, which is I attribute entirely to random luck.
I'm not sure what the lesson is here. Talk to my husband more rather than pestering him to take his next scrabulous move from the next room? Perhaps I should invent my own social networking site so that at least I can become a billionaire with an addiction.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
A Few Word About Sean Bell
The Q train took what felt like forever to arrive this afternoon. Surprisingly, I was able to find a seat. Along with the saxophonist who thinks he’s an alien, I rode home with a man whose voice was too loud. I may be wrong, but I believe people who speak too loudly are self-important and they function under the mistaken belief that everyone within earshot should have the benefit of their wisdom. Occasionally, one comes across a saxophonist alien, and on that rare occasion one may want to listen. But this particular day, the alien was drowned out.
“The last celebrity sighting I had was last week. It was Al Sharpton.” Now I wouldn’t consider Al Sharpton much of a celebrity sighting in New York City, so I was intrigued. “I don’t know what was going on, but there were television cameras set up everywhere.”
The man’s traveling companion spoke, though at a polite volume. “He made a lot of appearances after the Sean Bell verdict. Maybe that was it.”
“I don’t like to comment when I haven’t seen the whole legal proceeding, but it couldn’t have been racist if he was shot by a black cop. And anyway, when you’re dead you’re dead, whether there are 40 bullets or one bullet."
The silence hung in the air. I watched the young black woman who was pretending to be asleep dart glances at him. There was a black or Latino man who was also pretending to sleep. He seemed to smile coyly with his eyes open only enough to watch. I stared ahead while I visibly shook my head in dismissal. I thought about confronting the man but I was too tired to start an argument with a complete stranger. And somehow a confrontation would break the subway code of minding your own business.
“I respect the police. They’ve never done anything to me. I mean, I know I am a privileged white man and everything . . .”
The first words of confrontation almost escaped my mouth. But at that moment he stopped talking. The train lumbered in to Prince Street station, he gave his friend a light kiss on the cheek, she got off the train, and the torture ended.
“The last celebrity sighting I had was last week. It was Al Sharpton.” Now I wouldn’t consider Al Sharpton much of a celebrity sighting in New York City, so I was intrigued. “I don’t know what was going on, but there were television cameras set up everywhere.”
The man’s traveling companion spoke, though at a polite volume. “He made a lot of appearances after the Sean Bell verdict. Maybe that was it.”
“I don’t like to comment when I haven’t seen the whole legal proceeding, but it couldn’t have been racist if he was shot by a black cop. And anyway, when you’re dead you’re dead, whether there are 40 bullets or one bullet."
The silence hung in the air. I watched the young black woman who was pretending to be asleep dart glances at him. There was a black or Latino man who was also pretending to sleep. He seemed to smile coyly with his eyes open only enough to watch. I stared ahead while I visibly shook my head in dismissal. I thought about confronting the man but I was too tired to start an argument with a complete stranger. And somehow a confrontation would break the subway code of minding your own business.
“I respect the police. They’ve never done anything to me. I mean, I know I am a privileged white man and everything . . .”
The first words of confrontation almost escaped my mouth. But at that moment he stopped talking. The train lumbered in to Prince Street station, he gave his friend a light kiss on the cheek, she got off the train, and the torture ended.
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