Earlier this week, I wanted to send a Facebook message to my dancer friends in the Bay Area to invite them to a local event.  I ended up manually sifting through my entire friends list, since there’s no way to invite or message an intersection of friends.  Similarly, I wanted to post a twitter note to my Google buddies in a particular geographic region, but Twitter doesn’t support any sort of useful narrowcasting, either.

Basically, social service nowadays seem hellbent on having us share our lives and connect with more and more people.  I don’t want that, and I’m betting a lot of you feel the same way:  we want to deepen our relationships with our current friends, share details of our lives with the friends who are most likely interested in those particular details, and so on.

A lot of the brouhaha over FBs aggressive more-sharing push has been over privacy, but in the rush to protest “ZOMG, I don’t want my mom to know THAT!” the complementary concerns of narrowcasting have been largely ignored.  I’m personally a lot less worried about someone finding out something I don’t want them to know about, and far more concerned about burning out my friends with info they find irrelevant and uninteresting.

Is it not madness that I can’t post a note joking about a local politician just to my Mountain View friends?  This highlights one of a great many situations in which there are no privacy issues (I’m not trying to keep my bad sense of humor a secret from my friends in Europe), but rather that my friends outside MV aren’t likely to care about this topic.  And worse yet, these friends will likely stop reading my posts altogether unless I either post less overall (a bummer!) or magically somehow write entries that are appealing and relevant across my diverse group of friends (pretty impossible).

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[I wrote this years ago, but had posted it on a site I no longer maintain; I thought it might be nice to share it with you now.]

As many of you may already know, I spent over a year total in Europe during and immediately after finishing grad school in ‘98. My experiences included an amazing mixture of triumphs, tragedies, laughter, adventure, confusion, and pretty much every other emotion one can have… but compressed in time and on foreign soil.

While I regret not keeping any semblance of a diary during my time in Europe, I still carry a wealth of knowledge and emotions in me… much of which bubbles to the surface at random times. For whatever reason, one event came to mind tonight, and it made me smile.

During my initial 3 month internship in Europe, I was dying to ‘taste’ as much of the continent as I could. My workplace was next to a train station, and nearly every other Friday I’d bring a small suitcase to work, and spin the virtual Europe-roulette-wheel (and consult the weather forecasts) to pick a travel destination for the upcoming weekend. I’d then leave straight from work, typically take an overnight train, spend Saturday and Sunday at my destination, and arrive back—sleepy eyed and exhausted—to work Monday morning.

Spontaneity and adventure sometimes gave way, however, to frustrating circumstances… including nasty weather, obnoxious hostel (and hostile) roommates, and in some cases, lack of an available nearby hostel at all. Such was the case when I arrived in Luxembourg one weekend… forcing me to scour surrounding smaller cities for lodging. When I finally discovered a hostel with vacancies in a far outlying town of the main city, I was none too thrilled to find myself alone at this hostel… except for a gaggle of giggling teenage German tourists from what turned out to be a church group outing. They ate at their reserved table for dinner within the hostel, and I ate, basically alone and lonely, by myself in another corner… understandably not wanting to butt in on a chaperoned group of young’uns.

To my annoyance, they’d occasionally look at me with eyes that seemed to mockingly ask, “What is that weird, tired looking guy doing at OUR hostel?” but aside from that, I ate in peace, and then—noting it was too early to retire for the night despite my fatigue—wandered out into the cobblestone streets to find something to do or see.

There wasn’t much. But lo and behold, before long, I heard a familiar gaggle of giggling a ways behind me, and, almost as if in a cartoon, that very same group of young kids shushed quickly when I peered back at them. Imagine my surprise then, when one of the girls broke from the pack and shyly approached me.

Tonight I was tired.  Tired but—perhaps solely through repeated mental flagellations—ready to be brave.

Tonight at the weekly swing dance, I was going to ask Miss Q to dance.  Extremely talented, very attractive, and admirably most humble, too.  Miss Q, that is.  Darned ambiguous references, but indeed I digress.

Grammatical nits aside… for reasons I cannot quite narrow down for certain, it appears as though my bravery was either contagious or most coincidentally most ill-timed or a combination thereof. You see, that *other* fellow was determined to dance with Miss Q.  And the young man beside him.  And yes, that other chap dashing up beside the both of them.

Miss Q had a queue and a rather constant queue at that.  Oh, not the visible English-style straight version, but rather a discernible one nonetheless.  Ranging from skulking to brazen, star-struck and/or love-struck leads grabbed their opportunity, sometimes with frightening literalness, and Miss Q handled it all with the utmost in grace and good nature.  Was she delighted or annoyed or simply exhausted by all the attention?  I cannot say.  I was quietly and perhaps just a bit more than mildly seething at my ill fortune, and so in this circumstance I cannot fully trust my normally perceptive nature.

But I know this:  of the collective of Miss Qs here and elsewhere on the dancefloor—particularly in this arenas where the Misses outnumber the Misters—there by my estimation must be an aggregate tiredness and frustration on the shoulders of both sexes.  The Misses have nary a rest, much less a chance to do much choosing of their choosing.  They pair with those who are the quickest, the most cunning, the most persistent, the most unsubtlely lurking in the not-so-background, which may or—more likely—may not dovetail with those who are the most talented or otherwise desirable partners.

And, as you surely may have guessed, the disappointment lies not just within the fairer sex here, but rests upon the equally unlucky section of lads.  For we have two choices:  one-up the others in desperate aggressiveness or sit on the side passively ruing our lot and the escalation of hounding-stealing-hoarding that has led to this sorry condition.  Those compelled into the former may succeed on occasion but feel ashamed on the whole of what they’ve been driven to.  And those self-relegated into the latter behavior must simply feel, well, stamped writ-large with a neon ‘L’ upon their forehead.

*  *  *

Today, we send and receive notes publicly in a way that seems shocking when viewed by communications standards just a decade ago. Expressions of friendship, social plans, etc.

“I miss you!”...
“Hey, are you going to Fred’s party tomorrow?”...
“Save me a dance this Wednesday!”... etc.

Why do we like this, why do we post rather than e-mail? Bonding? Convenience? Insecurity? Is it just an extension of the old “You’re the greatest!” scribblings we got in our high school year books?

I feel torn about this.

On one hand, I must confess to being oft-delighted by both the chance to quickly share warm feelings or make arrangements with friends and acquaintances all over the world, many of whom I might not otherwise have a chance to more formally or personally converse with.  But on the other hand, this almost seems like a narcissistic and lazy version of friendship, and a behavior that’s not particularly seemly in someone who is nearly four decades old.

I’m almost past feeling bad about not handwriting letters anymore.  I still feel awful that I have unreplied-to e-mails in my inbox from dear friends that I’ve put off for “when I have time,” yet here I am writing a blog post.

Have we become a culture of relationship snackers?  Has the ease of publishing, of communicating, of virtual hugging (not to mention cow-throwing) resulted in an exciting and perhaps overall-positive broadening of our social circle… but at the expense of deepening relationships?

What do you think?  Why are we so drawn to this micro- and public communicating?  What does it mean for us?  What does it mean for relationships?

I have over 500 Facebook friends.  That’s a statement to help you understand my predicament, not a badge of honor.  Of these, a handful are close friends, a big bunch are “regular” friends, a ton of ‘em are colleagues with which I have varying degrees of social contact and interest, and an even larger ton are “acquaintances or less.”  From that latter category, I still value many of those admittedly “weak ties.”  I may not know someone well, but perhaps she and I connected strongly even after just a brief meetup.  Or… maybe I don’t chat with that one fellow much anymore, but he used to be my best friend in high school and I still care about how he’s doing.

But then there are the other “friends.”  People I met once at a conference and exchanged pleasant pleasantries with.  Someone from college who was the girlfriend of an acquaintance.  Or someone who… uh… who is that guy?

*  *  *

The biggest and most painful flaw in Facebook’s friend-system is that it assumes that two people in a “friendship” see the relationship in the same way… and thus have the same interests (or interest level) in both sharing and learning about each other.  I have no doubt that there are people I’m interested in hearing about (and from), but who absolutely couldn’t give a rodent’s posterior about my latest blatherings or photos.  On a related note, I have work buddies that I enjoy chatting with, but would probably not to subject them to my occasional angst, drinking photos, dating whines, and so on.  As a friend of mine once commented, “You don’t want to see your boss in Speedos” or, more intellectually, many people understandably feel uncomfortable sharing or reading “out of social context.” You get my point.

Hi there,

I don’t tend to post much about politics in this blog, especially nowadays.  But I have something I want to talk to you about that’s more than “just politics.”  It’s about my friends.  It’s about—with semi-apologies to Princess Bride—True Love.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with Proposition 8, I’ll quickly fill you in:  It’s a ballot initiative in California that aims to modify the state constitution to eliminate the right of people to marry the one they love if they’re gay or lesbian.

And let me tell you, it has warmed my heart to see gay and lesbian people I know tie the knot… people who are committed, monogamous, dedicated to their communities.  People who care about schools, who care about our country and the world. 

Hello.  Good day.  A little quiet?
I’m feeling a little blue myself.
You know, A little anxious for no particular reason
A little sad that I should feel anxious at this age.
You know, a little self-conscious anxiety resulting in non-specific sadness.
The state that I call blue.

- spoken by the narrator (“Man In Chair”) in the awesome musical “The Drowsy Chaperone”

Today I am a little sad because of a small heartbreak.
And a little anxious because, well, I should not be admitting this in public.

The Galloping Vendors

There had just been again weeks of violent unrest in the world, but I was quite a few countries away, together in a sprawling São Paulo street market with a colleague and our big happy-but-guarded driver.  The three of us were amiably ambling amidst a big, colorful, confusing, and crowded set of not-quite-straight rows on uneven pavement and outdoor shops and inside shops and coconuts with straws and colorful scarves.  And music CDs and sunglasses and an amusing, sometimes perplexing mishmash of electronic items.  Much of this, if not most, of dubious officialness. 

The majority of these items were sitting on wood planks, next to which sat oft squat, loud, tanned, tired yet eager vendors.

By the hour next, some of these sellers looked vaguely uncomfortable, nervous.  The storm clouds were coming, rain was imminent, and there was palpably a rolling sense of unease.

I just learned from BLADAM member Flathead in the Netherlands that there’s a worldwide movement involving Free Hugs.  I just watched a few snippets, and this just totally made my day!

It also brings to mind some thoughts I shared in an early blog entry (”Non-sexual Healin’” )

[...] It was then that I realized how much the whole concept of touch means to me and likely many of my Lindy Hop crazy friends. There’s such a comfort and warmth in—if you’ll forgive the modified Moulin Rouge reference—holding someone and being held in return.

At least in my case (and I suspect, for most others as well), this is all not really about sex or even necessarily flirting. As a heterosexual fella, I still enjoy hugging my friends regardless of their gender, and I likewise appreciate being a follower in Lindy Hop, even with guys.

Sure, there’s sometimes an underlying sensuality in dancing, especially when blues-dancing with someone you are attracted to from the way they look or the way they dance, and so on. But I still think that the overall non-sexual pleasure of touch is one of the leading factors that contributes to folks’ joy in dancing, and this also highlights just how much closeness our American society often lacks.

In much of Europe and Latin America, for instance, there seems to be less perceived overlap between friendly touching and sexual overtures, and I really like and respect that. When I lived in Europe, I found that I was encouraged to give and receive friendly hugs or even snuggle with others without ulterior motives or expectations.

Anyway, thanks, Flathead, for the neat link and good feelings .

In the marvelous The Week magazine (March 2007 edition quoting a USA Today / Gallup poll), it was disclosed that 53% of Americans wouldn’t vote for an atheist for U.S. President (and, unsurprisingly but just as sadly, 43% said they wouldn’t vote for a homosexual, either).  Barring a horribly worded poll question—which, I concede, isn’t out of the question—I’m guessing the real percentage of Americans who are prejudiced against atheists is even higher; assuming the poll was done by phone or in person, I can imagine some people thinking to themselves “Well, darned if I’d ever support one of them goin’-to-hell types, but I gotta sound enlightened here and not admit it!”

You know, I don’t care what people believe in: the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, the Boogie Man, or—my personal favorite and Savior—The Flying Spaghetti Monster... nor do I care whom they sleep with (men, women, or even The Flying Spaghetti Monster Himself, though I admit that could get messy), as long as no one gets hurt.  For instance, a pediatrician saying, “I’m sorry, son, I can’t see you today unless you pledge allegiance to Harvey, my invisible rabbit”... that would be wrong.  And weird… though (IMACANSHO) not a jot weirder than lots of other belief systems out there. 

Personally, I’d actually be happy to elect anyone as President—regardless of his or her religion or sexual habits—if he or she would fulfill just some very basic criteria:
- Has visited at least four countries in three continents.  And not just on business.
- Can read—and speak—at higher than a sixth grade level.
- Is respected by more than half a dozen world leaders.  And not the machete-wielding ones, either!
- Has publicly admitted to being wrong… and apologized!
- Has an innate sense of curiosity about the world… including people, science, the arts, etc.

And, most importantly…