If Facebook were a country, it would be the third most populated nation in the world, behind China and India, with some 500 million “citizens.” Well, if that’s true, I guess that would make me virtually a woman without a country. You see, I am not now, nor have I ever been, a citizen of Facebookistan.
Is it just me, or is the cultural divide between those who Facebook and those who don’t growing wider day by day, into a vast and deep disconnect? And even among confirmed Facebookers, there are differences: Some are recreational users, others may be more, er, addicted.
You know who you are.
Face it, if most of your waking hours–work and sleep excepted–are spent on social networking, you may be ready for an intervention. Facebook can accommodate you, with its very own 12-step program. Hmmmmm……. Wonder what the recidivism rate is? (“Aw, c’mon, just one little peek won’t hurt!”)
Too much Facebook may even be bad for your spiritual health. In March of 2009 the Bishop of Modena, Italy, suggested the devout give up Facebook, I-Phones and other digital distractions for Lent–a kind of Facebook fast, if you will (just on Fridays, not a complete abstention). How many of the faithful complied? I suppose we could take a survey on FB.
Let’s not and say we did.
Personally, like Greta Garbo, I vhant to be alone. Agreed, this is virtual sacrilege (mea culpa, mea maximum culpa, speaking of Catholics) for someone who writes for an interactive website. I don’t care if I’m the last woman standing. I will never, EVER, go on Facebook.
I’m so sick of even hearing about the Site-That-Must-Be-Named-Night-And-Day-Ad-Nauseum. If you believe Facebook, everybody and his brother is doing it, except for me and my actual brother; my husband; a few of my friends and other holdouts who just don’t want to go there. Hopefully they will rally to my support by showing their solidarity the old-fashioned way–lavish gifts (kidding.)
We still e-mail one another, talk on the phone–even on, gasp, land lines–or actually visit (literal interfacing). So out of my face, Facebook.
But you’ve never even tried it, you’re thinking. I haven’t tried heroin either. My instincts tell me that’s a bad idea.
And just because everyone’s doing it doesn’t mean I should—like smoking in the girl’s room in high school.
Now, I’m sure legitimate and meaningful transactions probably abound on FB. Under this category would be staging an insurgency against Mr. “Ima DinnerJacket” in Iran (really revolting); maybe getting elected to office, depending on who’s running for what; and status reports during natural disasters, such as hurricanes.
Reportedly, Facebook has helped recover rare, endangered monkeys abducted from an Australian zoo; kidnapped children; and criminals (for the LAPD), not necessarily in that order.
They tell me it’s great for networking–especially for businesses–free websites, blah, blah, blah-tee blah. But much of what transpires sounds exceedingly juvenile. There are too many desperate searches for too many old girlfriends and boyfriends—many of these by too-married people.
And the level of discourse: “liking,” so quintessentially Facebook-ian, is about 500-million-people wide and an eighth-inch deep. Whatever happened to the considered opinion, well-reasoned analysis, the astute comment?” Remember the art of “thinking”? “I think, therefore I am?” Just checking.
And the idea of unfriending someone–in public, yet? Yup, sounds like the 9th grade to me.
So un-friend me if I’m wrong, but Facebook is all about clicks and cliques, and the fallacy that real popularity and true happiness are just a click away. As for cliques, I wasn’t in one in high school, and I’m not about to join one now.
Frankly, my dear, I don’t want to interface or chat; don’t care who your so-called “friends” or friends’ friends are; don’t want to see pictures of your latest trip or read your blog; and most certainly do not want to write on your wall, “poke” you, or be reminded when your birthday is so I can feel guilty when I forget to send you an e-card card available right there on…..wait for it, now…. Facebook. Don’t we have enough noodges in our lives?
I don’t want you to know my whereabouts every minute of the day (“Status”), or the most boring, inane details of my life (mucking the horses now–I’m in deep doo-doo!). Don’t need to play FarmVille; I live there in real life.
And believe it or not, I actually LIKE my privacy.
If I don’t already talk to you, I probably don’t want to. On this subject I defer to Travis Bickle, infamous anti-social “Taxi Driver.” “You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to ME? …. Well, I’m the only one here.” (Except if you happen to be on Facebook.)
Do I need to remind you what happened shortly after Travis uttered those words? Talk about a definitive un-friending!
All of which makes me wonder, if Travis had lived in the age of Facebook and felt more connected, would he have been a better adjusted psychopath, less criminally insane?
True confessions: The only Facebook I ever actually wanted to be in was my freshman year in college, ‘cause it got me dates at MIT and Harvard. But I was young and innocent, and I’m allowed a youthful indiscretion…. or 35.
And since when did mere numbers get to be so important? Just because you count it, doesn’t mean it counts.
Yeah, so big deal, you’ve got a friend–maybe a few hundred friends. Well, isn’t that special, as Dana Carvey (“SNL”) used to say. And here I thought we were “special” friends.
The word “friend,” too, as co-opted by Facebook, is in danger of losing its real meaning. Soon we’ll need to invent a new word for the real thing. “Insignificant Others,” perhaps? “Friends Without Benefits”? “Whenever I Call You Friend, I Don’t Mean It?”
What you really mean is acquaintance. Last time I checked, you’re allowed to have as many of those as you want–unlimited numbers.
The idea of “Fans” is also legitimate and appropriate, as a superficial–albeit satisfying–relationship. “Fans” on FB fall under my “Stefani Germanotta (Lady Gaga) Exemption.” Lady GaGa just broke the record for most fans of a living personality (more than 10 million, according to The New York Times), just beating out President Obama. But to really break records, you need to be legally dead. Michael Jackson has in excess of 14 million fans.
Let’s see: Dead = more fans. Alive = fewer fans. More fans = not worth dying for.
Speaking of death, Facebook users over the age of 65 are reportedly distressed by the site’s inability to keep up with their deceased friends, and distraught when reminders appear to contact a departed loved one, part of the FB schtick. Oh shock and horror, infliction of gratuitous emotional distress–get Dewey, Cheat’em & How on speed dial. Guess what? If Facebook were really your friend it would be more sensitive. All this virtual community stuff is just a sham. Ignore the man behind the curtain. Just like the Wizard (of Oz), Facebook is a charlatan. Call it Fakebook.
Don’t you realize you’re being had? Facebook gifts, game apps, Marketplace, IM, access to blogs?
They’re trying to sell you something. And you bought it. FB and its spawn are the 21st-century equivalent of the Fuller Brush man. You wouldn’t let him in your house then, so why do you let in these virtual hucksters now?
But since this is not really about you, let’s get back to the real subject.
Me.
So what does this say about me, really? That I prefer the life of the mind? That I’d rather talk to my horse? That I’m a Luddite, nonconformist and contrarian who believes that if you follow the flock you could end up a lamb chop?
If you disagree with me, I’m sure you’ll have answers. (You want answers? You want answers? You can’t handle the truth!) What I think it says is that fundamentally I may be anti-social, or at least discriminating about the amount of time and the kind of person with whom I choose to socialize. In other words, I have standards.
Just like in the 70s, when my litmus test for whom to date was “If you haven’t ever heard of Truffaut, if you think ‘Jonathan Livingston Seagull’ is deep, you’re outta here.”
Don’t get me wrong, some of my best friends delight in going on Facebook. I still like them.
I do not, however, need more friends, and if I did I’d make them the old-fashioned way. Nor do I need any new fans–and I’m likely going to lose more than a few once this appears.
The only book I want to face tonight is one that starts “It was a dark and stormy night.” I’m all booked up. In fact, I’m behind on my reading. Remember reading, that vanishing pastime?
One more thing: I know I will be banned for life from Facebook, but I will be blessedly immune from embarrassment over some ancient misstep confided in a moment of gratuitous candor and forever recorded online.
Can you say the same?
So begone, Facebook, I’m begging you. Beat it! Amscray! Vamoose! Skedaddle! Tuck Five and Rotate!
You’re turning me into an old curmudgeon-ess–Andy Rooney, minus the eyebrows.
Do it for my husband. He does not want to sleep with Andy Rooney.
Barbara Ann Curcio is a former reporter and syndicated columnist for The Washington Post.
