COTA Chatter

I like to sit in the back of the bus. There are usually more seats there. I get a nice long gaze at everyone who steps aboard. Also, I occasionally get an earful of some very interesting conversations.

So I sit down, back-most, passenger side bench. On this model bus the two last benches face each other, with one long bench along the back wall of the bus. So, I sit down. Five men along the back and opposite bench are already engaged in a conversation. I wish I could remember more lines from it all, but it quickly became obvious what they were talking about: guns. Buying and selling guns.

One of the men seated directly to my left had a gun for sale. I couldn't exactly determine what kind of gun it was, but I certainly caught his asking price.

"I can't take less than a bill for it, man."

This was repeated many, many times to a man to his left who seemed to want it for something less than a bill. I think that a bill indicates a $100 bill. My associates generally confirms this suspicion.

The conversation ran along these lines for a while:

"Hey man, how much you want for that piece?"

"I can't take less than a bill for it. I can't take less than I paid for it, man."

The man on the far side of bench and the man facing opposite me were having their own conversation. I couldn't really pick all of it up and, believe me, I really wasn't trying to appear interested. I had reflective sunglasses on (aviators, if you must know) and I was watching out of the corner of my left eye. Out of the corner of my left eye I was watching when the man seated opposite me pulled a loaded magazine out of his pocket to show the man next to him.

Whoa. Cool.

They kept "haggling" over this gun, dancing round that urban maypole. Then this precious gem was uttered:

"Hey, you know my boy Face?"

I don't know who Face is, but he must be the guy to know. Since that day I have seen his "tags" on a number of buses. My boy face. I love it.

That night, late, faintly, but not very faintly, I heard gunshots.

The End: Of Laughter, Soft Lies, and Facebook

I owe myself and everyone else a more thorough explanation of why I am leaving Facebook. This blog is useful to me because I really express myself much better in text than I do verbally. Writing my thoughts and ideas make them gel; their essence is revealed to me and conveyed more fully to others. I can't really explain it, but reading and writing is more cognitively stimulating than the hoots and hollers we call spoken language.

I waste a lot of time on Facebook. Just puttering around on my laptop seeing what people are e-up-to. Any more I don't do quizzes or apps or any of that bullshit. Still, Facebook always seems to beckon me when I could be doing something else.

Speaking of apps, quizzes, zombies, top fives, etc., etc., -- what the fuck? I don't really mean to insult people who do these things, and its an elitist thing to say, but: come on, read a book. Read the newspaper: its online now too. Hey, read my blog! But the main thing is that Facebook is constantly telling me when people do these things, and emailing me about it sometimes. This is not what I signed up for in 2005. It annoys me, and is inconsistent with the mission of Facebook as I conceive it: connecting people with one another.

Now then, does Facebook still connect me to others? Does it connect others to me? I have to say yes, but I question the nature of these connections. I have never been myself on Facebook. I have been versions of myself: the funny me, the clever me, the intellectual me, the aloof me, the drunk me, the flirty me, the asshole me, the elitist me. On Facebook I exist in bits and bytes, a cyber portrait, Rembrandt-like, masterful, but too deliberately crafted to be real. I can't help putting thought into wall posts and photo comments; how droll, I think. I can only assume that others treat Facebook the same way. Its hard not too. I want real connections. If I want to tell you something or share something with you, I can text you, email you, or place an old-fashioned phone call. A personal connection between me and you, for your eyes, for your ears, for your consideration, only. A little window on myself, opened for you; a light pointed in your direction.

Also, Facebook has made me quite a hypocrite. I am not friends with all of these people. I have many friends to be sure. I also have friendly acquaintances, plain acquaintances, former acquaintances, people I met once, girls I might like to sleep with, a few girls I have slept with, etc. Also true and close friends. All these filed away as "friends" on Facebook. But a Facebook friend is not really a friend in the flesh. To many of my Facebook friends I am merely a well-wisher, in that I don't wish them any specific harm. Let's face it: it's a big ol' world out there, and we are going to meet a lot of people. We cannot all be tight. My close friends are close to my heart, sincerely, and they deserve more than to be lumped in with the 200+ other people I know on Facebook.

Maybe I have become curmudgeonly at the quarter-century mark, but I see Facebook becoming a monster. I used to say "Let's keep Facebook on Facebook," but now talk of Facebook is becoming widely diffused in more diverse social interactions. Facebook is beginning to change the nature of social interaction, or rather it is corralling the inherent power of the internet in a powerful way. If you and I are together, talking, I do not want to talk about what is happening on Facebook. That is what Facebook is for. The distinction is now all too blurry. I still believe that one-on-one, personal communication is the way to go; Facebook has never been that and I see it becoming the primary manner of casual discourse.

I could ramble on for a while. I just don't want it any more. It is striking to think that I won't have any means of contacting a lot of people who are my Facebook "friends," but really the odds of me ever wanting or needing to are slim. Conversely, a text message, email, or phone call from my former Facebook friends will be more meaningful in impulse and substance with Facebook out of the picture.