"Who Are All Of These People?"

Apparently, I'm arriving late to the party...or at least that what my daughter, Meg, advised me. "Dad! Everyone has a Facebook page! You need to get one too!," she exasperatedly said to me just recently. I replied, "Is that the same thing as the tabloid that you can purchase at the 7-11 for a $1.00 that has such flattering photographs of all the local people who have been arrested in the last month for DUI, drug possession, soliciting for prostitution, vagrancy, and other enterprises that don't read well on one's resume?" "You buy that?" she asked. "It beats the obituaries by along shot," I replied.

Of course she wouldn't let the subject rest, so I acquiesced, deciding to venture forth from a Google search to acquire my own Facebook page. That's where the fun began. In spite of the fact that the applications are of the basic point and click variety, there appears to be a myriad of ways one can go around one's elbow to get to one's thumb...and still end up lost. If you don't compare my initial attempt with that of my daughter's, whose page may well be considered for a Pulitzer Prize in composition, I have managed to publish my own entry. To what end, I have no idea.

It appears that one of the end game objectives for this particular enterprise is to "acquire friends." Lots and lots of friends. No sooner had my Facebook page "gone live" when I began to receive inquiries from people who wanted to be friends with me. Most I knew. Some I didn't. And some were creditors. I handled the latter by posting a disclaimer that the former possessor of the page had become suddenly deceased and his remains shipped, along with all of his former earthly possessions, to one of the remote Aleutian Islands. That ought to hold then off for a while.

Among the "Let's be friends" inquiries, I have received a number of contacts from former members of my senior high school graduating class of 1966. Interesting observation, the guys provide profile photographs, while the women, for the most part, do not. Admittedly, I'm not getting the least bit younger, and from the looks of some of my fellow classmate's photos, the ravages of passing time, lo these past 43 years, has taken a decidedly downward spiral. What they have lost in their previous youthful boyish and girlish good looks, they have gained in girth. There haven't been many meals missed in this group.

Which brings to mind an interesting aside that occurred when Judi and I attended my 30th high school reunion. It was held in the Odd Fellows Hall in Clemmons, North Carolina. (I kid you not! Sophistication was not and remains still not a concept to be grasp among my more rural, agrarian classmates. "Give me the simple life," still rings true with many of my former mates who have found comfort and certainty for their lives within 10 miles of where each graduated form high school.) Arriving Judi and I were greeted by the organizers of the event, none of whom looked the least bit familiar even though I was called by my name as soon as I walked in the door. I don't know what to make of that...

Anyway, I harbored a fear that the rest of the evening would be one where classmates would glad hand and call me by name, but I would be left embarrassingly unable to reciprocate in kind. Not to worry. Someone had the forethought to create name tags for each attendee from a copy of their high school annual photographs. Good idea except that each photo was the same size as when it was originally published and the accompanying printed names beneath were of such a small font that reading same without the aid of a high intensity spot light was impossible. Whereas few classmates in 1966 had need for glasses, they were bountiful aplenty in this group. And I, whose eyesight was once 20/20, had dissolved into barely being able to distinguish between shades of grey. To make the task of identification even more of a gauntlet to overcome, the majority of the ladies were displaying unabashedly their ample augmented feminine attributes in the most revealing evening gowns on which their name tags were most prominently and pointedly displayed. One had to literally get very up close and personal to determine the namesake of those proud attributes without the effort being regarded as gratuitous ogling. "Hi Jim. It's great to see you." "Well hi there...ah-a-a...hum-m-m...Betty Lou. My haven't we all grown up!?!" There's something to be said about being nearsighted. If I recall, Judi suggested the word "perverted."

Anyway, I now have my very own Facebook page. I know how to access my own and the pages of those who have "tagged" me as being among their selected friends. How anyone else goes about accessing my page is beyond me. All I know is that my daughter now considers me to be among the "cool" and "with it" crowd. So, if you get bored with my blog, you can try and find me on Facebook and ask me to include you as one of my friends. I'll be happy to do so...unless you happen to be one of my creditors, whereas you too will be informed that "Mr. Latchford has left the building."