Facebook Friends List Upgrade

I decided to upgrade my Facebook Friends List. I have only about twenty folks on the list and every one of them is a ex-classmate from high school, some forty years ago. Just looking at my Facebook Friends list, if a person didn’t know any better, he’d swear I must have lived in a cave for the last several decades. If I saw a friends list with no neighbors, no co-workers, just long-ago classmates, that‘s what I‘d think too. Don’t get me wrong, Facebook friend and ex-classmate Bob Sayre is an entertaining guy, but c’mon. So anyhow, I made up my mind that I needed a few Facebook friends from the new millennium.

I decided I'd put a few celebrities on my friends list. Celebrities would give the list some panache. I figured I’d start out with Richard Gere. I chose Richard because he is about my age and he probably lives in Southern California somewhere. I’ve been in that area once or twice and I thought it would be nice if Richard would put me up for a night or two if I were in town. I mean, isn’t that what friends do? Then it occurred to me that if he were ever in Columbus he might want to save some money on motels by staying with me. A single occupant at the nearby Red Roof Inn is now around $50. And Richard hasn‘t had a megahit in a while. Anyway, though my condo is not overly spacious, I figured that it would be okay for Richard to stay over. I have one bed and a couch, and for a night or two I‘d be willing to relinquish the bed and take the couch. We would be friends, after all.

So after going through the pros and cons, I entered the name “Richard Gere” into the Facebook search engine. Well, I must have found fifty Richard Geres, all with his photo as the primary profile photo that is seen on the search list. Either Richard had a lot of Facebook accounts or there were a lot of Gere phonies out there. Worse, the first ten or so were not really personal Facebook pages but kind of “fan sites”. And rather than the standard “friend request” option, these sites had a “Like” button with a “thumbs up” icon. Well of course I didn’t like. You see, I was trying to offer my Facebook friendship.

I thought that the Facebook Richard Gere might be an anomaly so I entered the name George Clooney instead. I surmised that he would be almost as good as Richard Gere. My ancient computer took a few seconds to work and for that brief moment I had visions of George, Brad Pitt, and myself sitting front row at a Lakers game, Jack Nicholson seated not far away. But Clooney’s Facebook search results were very similar to the results I’d found for Richard Gere; some Facebook fan sites and a number of dubious George Clooney personal pages.

I figured maybe I was shooting too high. Maybe I ought to take the position that if Gere and Clooney want to be my Facebook friend, they can request the friendship on my Facebook page.

Anyway, slightly annoyed, I pushed my chair back from my desk and turned my eyes onto the PBS program on the TV in my computer room. There was Neil Tyson, the amiable host of Nova. He was eloquently describing the formation of Saturn’s rings. Then I thought, Crap, why not see if Tyson could be a Facebook friend? He's a noted scientist. That's almost as good as a Hollywood star.

Quickly I put in his name, Neil Tyson, into the Facebook search engine then waited as my old computer churned. I discovered that low and behold, Neil Tyson had an “official” Facebook webpage. Official, so I knew it was probably really his. Not only that, he referred to himself on the page as “I” and “me” rather than by name, as was the case with Clooney and Gere on their respective Facebook pages. Yeah, this was the guy to be added to my Facebook friend list, no doubt about it.

Then I saw where Neil Tyson already had almost 5,000 Facebook friends. I can’t say that I was too thrilled by the idea of being just one of 5,000. It also meant that Tyson was not especially discriminate or prudent in who he selected as a Facebook friend. But then I thought, heck, why not go ahead and click on the ADD AS FRIEND button. Why should I worry about Tyson not being particularly choosy when it comes to Facebook friends, after all, I’m living proof that I have about twenty ex-classmates who aren’t.

National Economy Analysis

I went to the bank today. I wanted to see if I could buy a certificate of deposit for my $9.23, a certificate of deposit that paid at least 15%. I found out that the cheapest certificate of deposit still costs more than $9.23. This is really a shame because when we as a nation face economic hard times, I'm effected too, despite the fact that I wear a lot of old clothes and eat mostly microwave food.

Though I'm not an expert at the nation's economy, I'm nevertheless occasionally asked, "Jim, how did America get into this economic predicament? Was it the politicians or simply Wall Street greed?"

"It goes back further than that," I explain. "Truth is, it's the Irish. When the Irish came into this country, that's when the trouble started."

I know that a lot of people blame politicians. Others hold Al Qaeda responsible. And still others blame the Tea Party. And there are a lot of folks who point an accusing finger at gays, (both open and closet variety). But personally, I blame the Irish.

My sister came to visit me the other day and we talked about this very subject. [For the sake of this post I will now declare that] my sister is a sociologist. Not only is she a sociologist, she attended The Ohio State University. So you can bet that she knows stuff. She has mentioned the Indians as being responsible for the nation's economic troubles. The Indians have apparently benefited from American outsourcing. I'm not sure which tribe of Indians. My sister wasn't being specific about that. She once mentioned something negative concerning the Apache, but that might be due to the fact that she has seen a number of old, John Wayne westerns, and she was once in a minor auto accident involving a Jeep Apache. So though she is an expert, her view might be bias.

A female co-worker of mine blames blue collar workers, hardhat guys in particular, for the bad economy. See, she's a good-looking babe and when she walks by a construction site, she gets a lot of whistles and catcalls. With all the whistling and so forth, she wonders how any construction gets completed, let alone on time and budget. Just to be fair, I don't think she blames gay hardhat workers, although they may whistle at good-looking guys. I wouldn't know about that. I'm neither a gay hardhat worker, or a good-looking guy.

Call me an optimist, but I do think the economy is just beginning to get better. One way you can tell when things are getting better is by the age of the person who delivers the newspaper. If the delivery person is a kid, that means any adult that might potentially run the paper route has a real, full-time job. Another words, when it comes to a sound American economy, the younger the delivery boy, the better.

And yet another way to determine the strength of the national economy is to check how often the ice cream truck goes down your street on a summer day. If it goes by often, that's a bad sign. That means he is not being stopped for business, and consequently he makes a lot of passes down the street.

Some people try to determine the economic situation by watching business and stock market analysts on TV. But I wouldn't pay any attention to them and all their fancy charts and graphs. Truth is, most of those analysts are simply counting the number of times the ice cream truck goes by. Or they're waiting at the studio door to see how old the newspaper delivery person is. And as for the rest of the analysts, well, they're Irish.

My Trip To The Jiffy Lube®

I drive a Toyota Prius. It's actually a fairly advanced automobile, technologically speaking. A person doesn't need to insert a key to start the engine, just have the car's thumb-size sensor in his pocket. There's no key necessary to lock the doors either, as long as that sensor is near a car door. Today I discovered it was time to change the car's oil. A dashboard light came on and told me so. So I figured I'd go to the local Jiffy Lube.

I pulled the car up to the door of the Jiffy Lube's garage bay. I shut off the engine and then left my set of keys on the passenger's seat. Amongst the keys was the Prius's ignition sensor. A young, grease-stained, Jiffy Lube employee pushed me out of the way, jumped into the car, and grabbed the keys off the seat. He apparently was in a hurry. I noticed that his shirt said his name was Marvin. For a moment I watched as Marvin's oil marinated fingers toyed with the keys, his brain trying to figure out which of the keys was the ignition key.

"Hey pal," I finally uttered, "let's say you find the right key, where's the keyhole you put it in? Huh?"

Marvin began searching the dash for the elusive hole. Of course there wasn't one. But I let him look around for about thirty seconds. "I'll tell you what you do, swifty," I finally said, "put the keys back down on the seat and just push the big button that says POWER. If the engine doesn't start I'll give you the car's right front tire for free."

"Why didn't you just say tell me how to start the car in the first place?" Marvin grumbled at me, a bit of agitation in his voice.

"Well I would have if you hadn't pushed me out of the way as though I were your mother-in-law standing in front of a keg of Budweiser."

Finally Marvin got my car through the garage door and up on the rack. Meanwhile, I stood in the customer's waiting area acting as though I were reading a six month old Today's Bride magazine.

Jiffy Lube advertises that they take only ten minutes for an oil change. The company could make a fortune selling watches to their customers. This I say because my watch said that it took them almost 10 minutes to figure out how to open my car's hood. Either their advertising is wrong or my watch is.

Since I was going to be there longer than I expected, I decided I'd better use their bathroom facility. I asked a cigarette-puffing guy manning the desk where the toilet was. According to the name tag on his shirt, the man's name was Elden. Well, for an uncomfortable few seconds Eldon just stared at me, his slightly blood-shot eyes peering at me out of a weather-beaten, impassive face. At last he lethargically pulled the Pall Mall out from between his lips and tossed a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of a door around the corner.

"Thanks pal, your the best," I uttered in exasperation as I started for the restroom.

I stepped into the toilet facility and the first thing I noticed was the wet floor. "Hey pal," I barked out of the tiny room, "there's more water on this floor than there is behind Hoover Dam."
"Yeah?" he sang out. "Well for your information, that's not water."

"Really?" I howled as I glared fearfully at the flooded floor. "That's great. That's... just... great."

"Don't worry. It's only Marvin's coffee piss."

"Marvin's coffee piss?"

"That's right. It's piss but it's from coffee. Marvin had about five cups earlier today."

"Oh, well since I'm standing in coffee piss I don't feel so bad," I sang out sarcastically. "Can't Marvin hit the toilet?"

"I'll tell you what," Eldon called back to me, "you close the door and flip the light switch and you see if you can hit the toilet."

Well, my car was being serviced and my bladder was full. And since my shoes were already soaked, I figured I might as well do as instructed. So I threw the door closed with my right hand as I tossed the light switch with my left hand. The door clapped shut but the room's lone lightbulb refused to illuminate. Pitch darkness. After groveling around in the blackness for eight or ten seconds, I finally found the doorknob. I quickly pulled the door opened, stepped around the corner and barked to Eldon, "The light doesn't work!"

Without looking my way, he mumbled, "Wow. You're a real smart fella, aren't you?"

"Why the hell don't you put in a new light bulb!?" I huffed.

"Well usually we can use that room with the door opened," Eldon explained as he used his shoe to crush out his cigarette on the floor. "But we had a run of women customers this morning."

"Oh really? How inconvenient."

"Yeah. I'm willing to leave the door opened even with women in the place," stated Eldon, "but I'm from Alabama. Marvin is kind of bashful around women. So he closes the door."

"I think I'll just hold on until I'm home," I stated. "If you don't mind."

"Naw. The customer is always right."

Well, finally my car's oil was changed. Eldon rang up the service cost on the cash register. "That'll be $33.95," he muttered.

"Don't I get some discount because of urine damage to my shoes?" I remarked.

"Well I'll tell you, if you'd have come a half hour later, I might have been willing to give you some kind of shoe damage discount."

"Why in a half hour?"

"Well, ya see, Marvin has pretty regular bowels, and in a half hour he'd be about due to take a crap. You think your shoes are bad now, they would be a whole lot worse in a half hour, I guarantee you."

Time, Adulthood, And The Ultimate Sacrifice

When I was about twelve years old President Kennedy died. His assassination triggered philosophical questions out on the playground amongst us urchins. One question was; Are you willing to give your life so others might live? The first specific version of this question was, Would you die in place of the President of the United States? Jeff Pratt chuckled assuredly and pronounced in no uncertain terms that he'd die in place of the President anytime. All of us kids said that we were willing to take that step. Kim Gilbert said he would also be willing to die in place of the Pope. He meant it too. All of us were being completely serious.

If my memory serves me correctly, the questions became more detailed as we went along. As I recall, the next question was, What is the fewest number of people that you would be willing to sacrifice your life for? I think the first kid to speak up said he would be willing to die in place of a friend or family member. Then Lester Imboden proclaimed that he would be willing to sacrifice himself for just one important person, even if he were a stranger. Pretty darn noble, huh? Well, that did it. Everyone of us nodded that we'd do the same thing. Yeah, we were a courageous, high-minded lot, that's for sure.

A lot of time has passed since them days. But I've asked myself those same questions now and then over the years. The answers are no longer the same as they were when I was a kid. First, if my voluntary death were required to allow the President of the United States to live, well, good-bye Mr. Prsident. Nope, I wouldn't do it. Not even if he were new to The Office and he won the election by a landslide. I'm not that selfless any longer. My life means just too much to me.

If I could sacrifce my own life to stop a terrorist from blowing up a bus full of passengers, I don't think I'd do that either. I'd have to actually experience such a situation to know for sure, but my guess is that I'd choose my life to those lives on the bus. I'm just being honest here folks. I think if the body count got up into the hundreds then I'd probably have to think about it good and hard. There is a point where I'd actually be brave and noble. I'm pretty sure that I'd sacrifice my life to save a mid-sized city from annihilation. I'm pretty sure.

Yeah, when I was a kid I was a whole heck of a lot more valiant. I'll bet it's true with all the adults who were once those kids, those kids way back when. I still run in to Jeff Pratt at class reunions. He was the first kid to announce that he was willing to die in place of the President. Well of course he's grown now and I'm pretty certain he feels differently about making such a sacrifice, these 45+ years later. I mean, the last time I saw him he told me that he wasn't even registered to vote.

My Fitness Club

I joined a fitness club a while back. I will now take a moment to tell you about the club as viewed through my eyes...

I'm not sure if the fitness club I joined is typical, but I'm not yet sixty years old and still I'm always the oldest guys in the place. Sometimes I'm the oldest guy in the joint by twenty years. I've been there when I know no one has yet reached his or her thirtieth birthday, that is, no one but me.

I would say that about two thirds of the guys in the place spend almost all their time in the weight lifting section of the club as opposed to the treadmills and elipticals. As for the women, I think it's just the opposite. I'd guess that two thirds do not bother with the weight lifting equipment but rather spend their time on the "cardio" equipment. That's where I am most of the time too, on the cardio equipment.

I've been a member at this fitness club for a while now and I've never seen anyone sweat profusely other than me. Not one person. I've seen a little dampness on a few tee shirts now and then, but never a shirt soaked in perspiration. That's what I end up with three times a week, a shirt drenched in sweat. That's what exercising is all about, an elevated pulse and the accompanying sweat, or so I was once led to believe. I think that since everyone is fairly young, there's a reluctance to look anything but well-groomed. Just a theory.

There are no fistfights, no shouts of anger at the fitness club, but neither is there an abundance of overt friendliness. I'm always saying amusing things (at least I think they're amusing) to the staff. There's a "before and after" set of photos on the wall. Examples of what the club can do, or so they want you to believe. One example of a "before" photo shows a chubby woman wearing thick glasses. The "after" photograph has her slim and without spectacles. One time I pointed to the two photos as I said to a young staff member, "I would expect exercise to take off some pounds, but who would have thought that it can improve a person's eyesight?" The staff member was totally unprepared for such banter. Impromptu conversation just doesn't happen at this place. The staffer looked at me for a few seconds, bewildered, before producing a modest chuckle.

I'm not sure whether a lack of personality is common among fitness club members, or whether it's the younger generation in general that no longer knows how to have casual interaction with strangers. I tend to think it has to do with fitness club people, but I'm not sure. More study is required.

I try to never go into the club's locker room. I might give the room a visit if it had changing stalls, but it doesn't. Just an open locker room. See, I don't like taking off my clothes in front of men. I've never gotten used to it. If I'd been in the Navy maybe I'd be alright with it, but I was never in any of the armed services. If I'd even been on the high school basketball team I might be able to manage male group nudity. But I never made the basketball team either.

Aside from the problem with the nudity, I also hate the idea of sitting on a surface that has been in contact with the bare butts of others. I don't like the thought of sitting on such a surface while I'm wearing pants. Sitting on a locker room bench with my own bare butt is an utterly abhorrent thought. Just visualizing it makes me cringe. Anyway, I change out of my shirt in the men's room, by the sinks. I even do that quickly, to tell you the truth.

Anyway, that's a peek into my fitness club, a peek through my eyes. If any of you fellow members happen to read this silly blog entry, you'll know who I am. I'm the guy on the treadmill who's actually sweating. Say hello if you want. Since no one ever says hello to anyone, it'll shock me, but pleasantly so.

In Need of Additional Repairs (By guest blogger Marcia Jeffers)

My name is Marcia Jeffers. I am single and 32 years old. I was married about ten years ago and though we were married for about five years, it ultimately did not work out. I think it was the common case of our being too young and naive. Anyway, I am the CEO of a small but rather up-scale motel chain in the Pacific Northwest. My father started the business over 40 years ago but has recently decided that he wants to spend more time relaxing; consequently he gave me the corporate reins. It isn't like I am a novice at the business. I graduated with a marketing degree from Cornell, and I have worked within the company for ten years. Anyhow, that gives you some idea of who I am.

Marcia Jeffers

Over the last year or so I have decided to get back on the horse, romantically speaking. I think it is time for me to get serious about someone again. To that end I have been dating Mathew for the last few months. He is 36 years old, very articulate, and dare I say; very good-looking. He is an independent landscape architect. He was recently contracted by our firm to do some exterior updating of some of our facilities. His past work has been very impressive and he came highly recommended. I was taken with him immediately, in more ways than one.

I have found dating Mathew to be generally gratifying and mostly agreeable. He is extremely bright and discerning. I suppose it is true that he can at times he can come off as a bit rude and insensitive, but we all have our weaknesses. No one is perfect. Our relationship has been quickly moving along and I have felt that it is on the verge of becoming completely intimate. The only reason why it hasn't reached that stage yet is that I have been purposely moving slowly and cautiously. I have decided that I want my next romantic relationship to be a long-lasting one.

About three weeks ago there was a small electrical fire in my office. The damage was relatively modest and I decided to continue doing my work in the office during the two weeks needed to do the repairs. The repairman, Keith, seemed very friendly and polite. During the first few days he would occasionally interrupt me by warning me that he was going to have to run a power drill or some other piece of noisy equipment. Keith soon became rather self-consciously humorous in his apologies concerning the commotion and the clutter. It did not take long before I realized that I was actually enjoying his little interruptions.

Eventually Keith and I were taking little pauses in our workdays to chat. I discovered that he is 33, never married, likes firework displays, carnivals, and kites. Keith found out my age, marital status, that I like old movies, and that I collect antique vases. He quietly listened to me as I tried to explain why I enjoy collecting vases and urns. He seemed genuinely interested. Meanwhile, I sensed that I was becoming enthralled by his smile, his laugh, and simply by how he moves his hands when he speaks. I liked the sound of his voice; thoroughly masculine but yet not overpowering. But perhaps the thing that impressed me most was how insightful and philosophical he was. 

The day Keith completed the repairs to my office, he came in and stood in front of my desk and asked me if I would like to go out sometime and get a glass of wine or a cup of coffee. It might seem crazy or even idiotic of me, but I was very surprised by his overture. Without hardly a thought I shook my head and awkwardly babbled, “Thank you, but no, I don’t think so.”

Keith smiled politely and calmly said, “Okay, I just thought I’d ask.” He then turned and went out the door.

It was then I realized that I had ignorantly, stupidly been thinking of Keith as just the repairman, a friendly, personable repairman, but just a repairman nevertheless. In my narrow-minded brain I had not envisioned him as a potential suitor. Still, I was sure I had acted wisely by declining Keith’s offer. After all, my relationship with Mathew was moving right along.

Two days passed and my mother called me at my office. She was in the area and she suggested we go out together for lunch. Just by chance, Mathew and I had planned a luncheon date. I figured that the three of us could go out together, after all, Mathew was yet to meet my mother and it was probably high time he did.

About ten minutes before noon I was watching out my second floor office window when I saw Mom pull her car into the parking lot. I watched her climb out of the vehicle and walk down the sidewalk towards the building. Then, suddenly, her foot stepped off the edge of the walkway, twisting her ankle, and sending her sprawling to the ground. I was about to run down to her when I saw Keith hurry to her. From the window I watched him as he carefully examined her ankle, all the while making little remarks that made Mom laugh. She seemed to be okay. I took a breath and relaxed.

Then just a few seconds later I noticed Mathew coming down the sidewalk, the same sidewalk where my mother was at that moment seated while Keith attended to her. Without so much as a glance, he walked right by Mom without a bit of concern. It was as though this injured older lady resting on the walking was invisible. Fortunately there was Keith, making sure she was not badly injured, and comforting her in the process with his wit.

Concerning the things that matter most in life, I can be so stupid. Perhaps, just perhaps it is time for some additional office repairs. And I know just the man I want doing them. 

Public Restrooms and Me

I did a little thinking concerning public restrooms recently. Sometimes I dwell on unpleasant things so when I have to encounter them in reality I am prepared. I really don't like using public restrooms.

For some reason taking a whiz in a men's room is not as daunting a prospect as taking a crap. I'm not sure why that is. If I'm at work, or out in public and I suddenly realize I have to take a crap, I immediately begin to assess the situation. I ask myself, Can I hold it until I get home, home to my own toilet? If I can't wait that long, the next question is, Where is the nearest clean, seldom-used facility? If I have to take a whiz I don't ask myself these questions. When I whiz I'm just standing up at a urinal. Usually that's all there is to it. Maybe there is a slight tinkling sound of pee trickling down the drain. But there's seldom any fart sounds. I release very little in the way of embarrassing foul odors while whizzing. Perhaps most importantly, no part of my epidermis is touching any potentially vile surfaces. It's just whizzing, zipping up, and possibly washing my hands.

It's different when I have to dip a terd, pinch a loaf, drop the brownies in the pool, to name a few euphemisms. Crapping requires that I find an empty stall and that its toilet has been flushed. I then have to drop my pants below my knees and either cover the toilet seat with paper, or have my butt hover over the toilet seat. I usually find that arranging the paper atop the toilet seat to be too troublesome, so more often than not I hover. I think hovering is the cleaner way to do it anyway. It's like the difference between having sex using a condom, or abstaining. The condom might do the job, but nothing is as safe as abstention.

I've never quite figured out if toilet stalls designated for persons in wheelchairs are like handicapped parking spots, that is, reserved especially for them. I conducted a little survey on this question and most people believe that handicapped toilet stalls are available for everyone, including the able-bodied. I would hate to get cited for using a toilet stall illegally. Speaking of the handicapped. In men's restrooms there is often a single, lower urinal at the end of a line of urinals. This is a relatively new phenomenon. When I first saw one six or eight years ago I thought it was for midgets and dwarves. When I mulled that over for a minute or two I decided that was a little too silly a notion so I figured it must be for little boys. But now I think lower urinals are mostly for the handicapped. I am still not positive however.

If there's someone in the restroom, I get a little self-conscious with the non-verbal noises I make while in the toilet stall. The farting sounds, the terds splashing into the water, even the sound of the toilet paper dispenser makes me a little ill-at-ease. Depending on my recent diet, I sometimes feel the need to apologize for the stink too. I think that Taco Bell is indirectly destroying the ozone. I probably wouldn't have these concerns for grotesque smells and noises if I were ever in the military. So I can't be identified, I usually wait until everyone is out of the restroom before I exit the stall. Waiting until the restroom has emptied has a secondary advantage; with no one there, I don't have to wash my hands.