PAPARAZZI FOR THE COMMON MAN

"It makes me uncomfortable that you are a friend of my husband’s on Facebook," she wrote, continuing to say that while she understood my son was a former music student of his, she did not understand the nature of our 'relationship.'

This was the message Facebook sent to my email account, directly from the account of Max’s old piano teacher. But the message had been written and signed by his wife who had taken it upon herself to log in. Surely, had she even had her own Facebook page, she would have known that most of these 'friends' are simply part of a collection we may feel we’d just like to have, like clothes we buy on sale but never get around to wearing. Certainly, I wasn’t the only female 'friend' on his page. I had to be one of many innocent victims of this man - a husband, a father - who seemed only to have been exploring the latest cyber-tech trend. I’d imagined the wife glaring quizzically at her husband's back for months as he hammered away at his keyboard, until finally one day, she marches over to his chair, growling "move over!" and taking control.

My first, devious inclination was to simply admit, "Busted!" That any suspicions she had were correct - we indeed had been having an affair - and leave her with that. My second thought was to give her some relief, while bailing out her poor, 'snagged' husband, by disclosing the true and boring details of our 'relationship.' But this is the internet, I thought, and my words will exist in perpetuity (or so I'd like to think...). I was therefore not interested in sharing the details of my life with her - and the world, no matter how lackluster they were. And besides, I thought, why should I give anything to this woman who infiltrated my personal cyber-world, anyway? I was left entertained by the remote prospect of a tech-savvy sugar farmer in Madagascar or a bar-keep at the Munich Hofbrauhaus wondering what the true story actually was. “I have no particular relationship with your husband on or off Facebook,” was my laconic response.

Facebook. Here's the thing: You either love it or you hate it. You have all the time in the world for it or none at all. Not familiar with the inner workings of Facebook at first, my initial reaction was, if my friends wanted to communicate with me, why not just pick up the phone, or shoot me an email? For me, Facebook was incredibly annoying. Why would I want to take the time to navigate my way through this labyrinth, only to discover that someone is merely having a cup of coffee, turning up the thermostat, or just coming back from alternate sides parking?”

As old friends, acquaintances, and the occasional stranger begin to pop up in your on-line life to ask for your 'friendship,' many of whom navigated the same office building or school hallways that you did, you may find yourself hesitating before clicking 'confirm.' "We never connected all those years ago, why should we now?" And if everyone is indiscriminately gathering up these friends as they would candy blasting out of a busted piñata, why bother clicking 'confirm’ if you'd be just another piece of Double Bubble scattered among the coveted bite-sized Snickers?

Plenty of 'friends' that I've confirmed have not been in touch with me since The Click, and vice-versa. So if, upon new friend requests, you click 'ignore' or just don't respond, would anyone even notice? If you de-friend or ‘delete’ (imagine…such a word now being applied to a human being) someone who already has 384 friends, how would he or she even notice you were gone?

But there are those few special people from long ago with whom you do connect. Those with whom you shared friends, enjoyed the occasional night out or a sleep-over, cruised adventurous roads with, and those you just liked - but somehow, hardly knew. So you make a plan to meet for dinner, hoping there will be something to talk about, something both of you will discover about one another after having been in the virtual dark for the last 30 years.

As it turns out, I have had several such meetings recently, all within a relatively short period of time. There was lunch with one ‘friend’; a re-connection and correspondence with another I hope never to disconnect from again; and a fun night out with a yet another friend who I learned was even more charming and interesting than I remember her being.

These are the people you really only knew before they emerged as their complete selves. We were all incomplete, partially baked, not fully formed. And although many of us are still forming at this relatively late stage in the game, it can be enlightening to see how people turn out - that is, if you have the time and can afford it.

My kids have seen me to the front door on many of these occasions. “Where are you going,” they would ask me. “Dinner with another new friend?”

That’s right, boys. We’re squandering your college savings on wining and dining with old friends we’ve found on Facebook - many with whom we never would have dined back then unless we had known them much better.

But there are plenty of occasions when Facebook can suddenly cause you to question your own status in the lives of those you know well. A close friend with whom I spoke several times a week for years hadn’t called in a couple of weeks, and all but disappeared from my life. Having usually been the one to initiate calls, I’d had enough, feeling ignored. I backed off to let her make the next move. After almost two weeks of silence, I decided it was time to see what she’d been up to on Facebook. Posted there on her ‘wall’ was one photo, among many others, of a mutual friend’s family, gathered around her dining room table with a bounty of food set before them.

“What the hell are they doing there,” I wondered, feeling slighted. “Why aren’t my kids sitting at that table? Why them, and not the Venturas?”

Not long after my sleuthing, my friend and I finally met for a couple of Bloody Marys on a cozy Sunday afternoon. I needed the drink to broach the subject. What was up? Had I done something to offend her? Where had she been all that time, and why hadn’t she called?

Her explanation was sound. There had been a misunderstanding on both our parts, and we cleared the air with laughter and a couple of tears.

“And one more thing,” I added. Both of us were now in good spirits and loosened up from our drinks. I was feeling bold. “I happened to check out your Facebook page and saw all the Smith kids gathered around your table. So, where were the Venturas that night, anyway?” I asked in mock-disappointment.

“Fucking Facebook!” she said, in fits of laughter with a tinge of disgust. It turned out there was a story behind that dinner, which she explained. It wasn’t at all the conspiracy to ‘delete’ my family that I’d imagined it was.

“Fucking Facebook…” I agreed. Stalkbook was more like it.

Facebook. It is the constant assessment of who you are and where you’ve been. It brings your past to the present, and there is no escape. It brings back a friend you once knew and leaves you satisfied you weren’t the only one with the memories. And at the very worst, it is a peep-hole into someone else’s dining room where a guest family other than your own shared a dinner of Chinese take-out.

Most of all, Facebook is the banal status updates that remove the mystery of the lives you left behind decades ago. ‘What ever happened to…’ is no longer the question. You will know if ‘Most Likely to Succeed’ ever made it big, you’ll see if ‘Most Hairy’ has gone bald, you’ll find out if ‘Best Looking’ gained 40 pounds and lost her mojo. But most of all, you will navigate your way past your bedtime, and everyone you’ve ever known will know it.