Facebook Intervention Needed

I'd like to begin by saying I am an admitted Facebook addict - sometimes, to the point where I'm literally refreshing like a dude waiting for a 15 minute gang bang on Xtube to load. But don't get me wrong - I totally understand that this is ludicrous. That in another era, this would have been considered visual and emotional torture. ("Jaimala, come look at photos of Grandma's trip to Seminole Bingo in Tallhassee. There are six rolls and two hours of video footage, one of which may or may not have been shot with the lens cap on - you know how your grandfather is retarded.")

But sometimes, in between obsessively spying on my friends' walls and photos and event invitations, it just strikes me - how the internet has somehow turned eavesdropping, voyuerism and torturous trips through photo albums into something not unlike an out of control Heroin binge.

I don't even know what it is about Facebook - if maybe it's the sheer volume of useless updates, that when added all together form a social networking algebraic principal similar to when you add all negative numbers to create a positive, and perhaps this somehow releases specific social-networking endorphins in the brain - and thus in the end going through some old middle school acquaintance's photo album feels like you've just come all over the place and need a cigarette.

Whatever the case, I do have enough self awareness to worry that I will eventually end up on one of those A&E shows about addiction. That I will give an incoherent, on-camera interview about Facebook while desperately surfing Facebook, and then a substance abuse counselor will somberly gather all my friends and family in some remote motel which I will know nothing about until the "lunch with Mom/exit interview," at which time they will all sob and clutch letters that begin with, "Jaime, we worry that Facebook is becoming like a family member to you. Please X out of your Status Feed and graciously accept this gift of rehabilitation today..."

So. Having said that, I was surfing Ye Olde (or Ye New) Facebook today and noticed a bunch of interesting quirks which I would like to now share with you, my blogland friends. (Sidenote: Do you see how even when I'm blogging I immediately turn to Facebook? As if I'm just dying for an excuse to uselessly roam around the internet for another wasteful two hours? Because I'm at work and my God how did people do that all day without Facebook?)

(See? Obsession. Boredom is partly to blame, but still.)

Anyhow.

Please feel free to chime in if you have any Facebook observations of your own:

What I've Learned From Facebook:

1. Some women live their entire lives in string bikinis. Their days are filled with coolers of beer, illegal fishing off the side of a boat, and many shades and hues and styles of ass-crack. Sometimes ass-crack against a spectacular sunset. Sometimes ass-crack against a lovely meadow. Sometimes ass-crack against the backdrop of another ass-crack. Sometimes a slide-show of ass-crack against a cacophony of breast-crack. And of course, mojitos. Part of me wants to be one of these women, but alas, I do not have a boat.

2. Profile photos allow for dramatic transformations - either into celebrities, toddlers or infants, or else what is either an ultrasound or an epic sea monkey battle (or maybe a combination of both - a fetus fighting a sea monkey army? Maybe with lightsabers? Wouldn't that be totally awesome?) I keep meaning to ask these friends how their transformations actually took place - if only because I wouldn't mind living for a week as either an infant or a sea monkey. Or Paris Hilton. Mostly because you get to poop wherever and whenever you want, and you also get to be carried around all day in a colorful traveling accessory. And who doesn't want to live like that?

Speaking of which...

3. Some people celebrate their poop - sometimes, more than 3 times a day. My poop, by comparison, goes relatively uncelebrated.

4. Lots of people have moved to share-cropping compounds called FarmVille, where every day they tend to livestock, cultivate iguanas, discover mystery eggs, raise cattle, and build stables. Here, everyone is considered equal and all material items and workloads are distributed evenly amongst the villagers. Nobody is richer or poorer than anyone else, and there is always enough healthcare and magic dragon eggs to go around. Which I guess begs the question: was FarmVille created by Obama as part of a secret government plot to rename the United States The Socialist Farmville Republic of That Lesser Country Underneath Canada? (because we all know how you really feel about us, Canada - WE ALL KNOW!) I suppose only time will tell.

5. Actual clubs (Drama! Key Club! Future Homemakers of America!) are now a thing of the past. On Facebook, people mostly join clubs to promote something they hate, which they may simultaneously also LIKE. (i.e: the organizations known as I Hate When You Stop In the Middle of the Street To Take a Picture, Are You Freaking Retarded?; Stop Bragging About Your Honors Student Because Nobody Cares And You Are Dumber Than He Is; If Your Child Screams In A Crowded Movie Theater I Will Physically Beat Him With This Icee - and so on and so forth.) Confusing? Nah. Communities have always been built upon everyone's shared (beloved?) hatred of a common enemy. You think the United States was formed because we so loved the British and their scones?

Okay, so I know there's a lot I'm leaving out here, but I've gonna cut out of this blog post early to surf my news feed. It's been nearly an hour since I've refreshed. Surely you understand.

Grandma's Mojo is the Best!

For those of you who don't know, my grandmother (who made MANY guest appearances in my comedy monologues) passed away a few weeks ago. So what you're about to read is my occasionally rambling, always inappropriate online tribute to her - to be followed immediately by the picture of an adorable puppy (what assuages grief better than baby animals? NOTHING. Except maybe baby animals in costume.)

Commence tribute:

My grandma was an old-school broad - seemingly unsinkable, like Molly Brown. Back in the day, she took care of (what seemed like) an impossible number of Morrises - whether cooking daily meals filled with love and chicken ("everyday with the goddamn Chicken!") and far too much Paprika, providing those homeless among us with lodging, or perhaps issuing unwanted social commentary - she was always the family gate-keeper (which I suppose makes my grandfather the family Key Master? Minus the coming of Gozer and turning into a Doberman thing? Or do I just relate way too many unrelated situations to Ivan Reitman films?) Or, actually, perhaps a better analogy is Grandma as ring-master - or that creepy guy who runs the sideshow at the traveling carnival - minus the handlebar moustache and tophat. You get what I'm saying.

That she's gone now is bizarre to me - as if Bev could be susceptible to something as pedestrian as cancer; that's like Chuck Norris dying in his sleep instead of in an underwater boxing match with Satan, God and eight killer sharks like the prophecy of course always promised. (Or like how Lost turned out to be a bad metaphor trapped beneath an ancient wine cork. Really, Lost? The island is just a bottle of Sutter Home? THERE'S A REASON NOBODY BUYS THAT CRAP AT WHOLE FOODS, LINDELOFF!)

(Tribute-interuptus!:)

(Dear Lost, You shredded my heart like so much emotional pornography and then you answered none of my questions, and then, tragically, you died. Yet, I still love you. So. Please bring back Sayid's naked chest and Sawyer's wind-swept floppy hair. Maybe in a spinoff? Sayid and Sawyer: Wet, Half-Naked and Awesome. Okay? Call me, Lindeloff!)

(Finis-tribute-interuptus! - sorry, dudes. A shit ton happened in the past month and I am all over the place trying to catch up.)

Anyway.

My grandma was supposed to live forever (no offense to all of you out there with mere mortal grandparents) - after 88 years of perfect health, a smoker's Brooklyn accent (somewhere between Coffee Talk's Linda Richman and The Exorcist's Linda Blair), not to mention 6 packs of Marlboros a day since the mid 1930s. Seriously, you guys? Anyone who consumes that much nicotine and makes it to 88 should outlive the Earth.

Beyond this, my grandma was always the shit to hang out with - even during those painful months before she died - mainly because she never once felt sorry for herself, never once made apologies, and had an excellent memory and an endless capacity for stories about everyone else's fucked up, retarded bullshit. (Sidenote: "fucked up retarded bullshit" is, I believe, a phrase I first learned from her when I was two.) Basically, you could ask her what she ate for breakfast and instead of an answer, she'd give you every assinine offense any Morris had ever perpetrated against the act of breakfast over a span of at least forty years.

Once, right after I joined J-date (a Jewish dating disaster deserving of its own entry) I called her up and asked her what she thought about romantic relationships. What makes them work, what compells folks to stay together, that sort of thing. And instead of giving me the usual grandmotherly speech about love and all its nauseating granduer, she launched into a seemingly unrelated diatribe about how, to save a bit of money right before the war, my grandfather bought himself a car with no floor; literally, it was just seats and cardboard on a metal foundation - what she called his "quaintly stupid piece of shit."

"Sure, nobody had money during the Depression, but who buys a goddamn floorless car? I was Wilma Flintstone for a year, and I swear, we might as well have been driving a cardboard box with a windshield. And god forbid it rained. I just... can't. even. tell you. But that idiot was adorable in his Navy uniform with his short little legs and those awful jokes. And God, that assinine car. But he made me laugh. If he hadn't, I would have smacked him in the face and gone off in search of Frank Sinatra and been done with it."

we were both adorable in the 80s...

After the war, my grandparents moved to the subburbs and bought a card store - and put my Dad to work at the register as soon as he was old enough, and then my cousins and I as soon as we were old enough - and by old enough, I mean potty-trained and able to form simple sentences. Actually, my cousins and I were (I am proud to say) the best employees no paycheck could buy: by the time we were six we ran the register and the lotto machine; we also sold ugly fake jewelry to anyone stupid enough to buy it, and peddled homemade goods from my grandmother's beloved assembly line of inappropriate nonsense - a random assortment of homemade bags, screened t-shirts with sayings like "I found the keys now where the fuck is the car?!" and chocolate molded candies - Valentines hearts, birthday lollies, Christmas wreaths, naked breasts and assorted novelty penises (which also meant we frequently nibbled on chocolate pornsicles as we rode our bikes around Hewlett Harbor. Of course, years later, when I brought up the weirdness of that - admittedly a source of both pain and hilarity - my grandma, instead of directly answering the question, extended to me a traditional Jewish Guilt Branch - an offering of homemade noodle kugle, matzoh ball soup, and/or barbeque brisket. This is how Jewish grandmothers get away with everything, guys:)

"You used to ask me, 'Grandma, can I do the boobies? Please can I do the boobies?' and it was adorable, Jaimala, and a little weird, except I kept thinking maybe you were really trying to say 'Bubbulah,' like you were confusing a sentiment, but then I realized you only had a smartass mouth. Where you picked that shit up from, I'll never know. But it's not like you had anything else going on at the time anyway... But you know Grandma loves you. Now, eat this kugel I made before it gets cold - I put in extra golden raisins. I know you love those."

(That's really how they get away with it, guys - offerings of delicious golden raisins.)

Nevertheless.

My Grandma was just a bad-ass broad; she took care of the books for the store, she sold her own erotic candy, she ran the family business as if it were both business and day care - and, awesomely enough, every once in awhile, she sold cards and assorted novelties to the entire Long Island mafia (one of her many, many stories - that the mob met in the office building across the street and we were their sole chocolate supplier - for what exactly, I have no idea. But can you imagine that meeting?)

"Tony, thank you for the comprehensive power-point on cement shoes vs. red hot pokers. I admit I was unaware of our extensive Instrument Of Death expenditures. But now, before Vinny goes over our quarterly budget by cracking open the wall safe behind the trick bookcase and disabling the array of protective security lasers, please enjoy some tea and sandwiches and some milk chocolate genitals on a stick, courtesy of Bev from Carl's Cards across the street."

(Grandma's special story cocktail: 1/2 gross exaggeration mixed with 1/4th shit learned from old timey movies, spritzed with 1/4th actual truth, but always served to us with such commitment. The more I think on it the more I realize she would have made one hell of a long-form improviser.)

I hear mob bosses are suckers for chicks in bathing suits...

Fast forward about twenty-five years.

Although it had been (I'm almost embarrassed to admit) several years since I'd asked my Grandma for anything - we Morris women are known for our pigheadedness, also for our creative use of both English and Yiddish curse words - I called her up a few months before she died, needing some advice - either her hard-nosed opinion or an old-school kick in the ass - whichever she was willing to offer. I was broken hearted and feeling sort of helpless - like a kid painting chocolate testicles only half-heartedly, wondering if this was all there would ever be to life (remember when y'all were six and wistfully painting pubes on chocolate penis molds? No?)

Basically, I was having what I've since lovingly (or frustratingly) nicknamed "The Old Maid Freakout" - paranoia that my window to find a non-crazy, non-gay, non-asshole had closed. And then who the hell would I have to make bad jokes with and push a floorless car with? Surely you single women out there know what I'm talking about - usually, it ends with a pint of Phish Food, six glasses of wine, an incoherent rant directed at the dog, and mispelled drunken sexts to every retarded horndog guy in my iphone address book.

"Love doesn't fucking exist," I'd said. "And who wants to be repeatedly hurt in some fruitless, crazy, Moby Dick search for something that doesn't fucking exist? That's like I might as well go looking for Jon Hamm to give me an engagement ring - or leprechauns with Lucky Charms or talking Pound Puppies or babies who can break-dance and do you see where I'm going with this? It's all make-believe, Grandma! Everyone goes on and on about how love is just like magic but you know what? Magic isn't real. So how can love be real when magic's not? It's all an illusion! Or a paradox! Maybe? I don't know, but it's something goddamn similar!"

Then, after I took a much-needed breath from Ye Old Maid Freakout, this is what my 88 year old Grandmother had to say - in a voice strained from chemo, and for once forgoing a story in favor of actual advice:

"Don't act retarded, Jaimala. Love isn't magic - it's just hard to find. And you have plenty of time. So I think I speak for both your Poppy and myself when I say that we were worried you might be a lesbian - not that you can't be whatever you want - but really, for years we thought you were a lesbian. At least it's a relief to know you'll be able to have babies someday. Not before I die, but someday. So make yourself happy now but then, definitely, have babies. Okay? Just look at it this way: if Grandma can quit smoking, surely you can marry this Jon Hamm you love so much. I can't imagine he wouldn't want to marry you, Jaimala. What's not to like? You're my granddaughter. Just don't worry so much - you'll be fine. You have plenty of time. Everything ends up the way it's supposed to."

Oh, Grandma. Wherever am I supposed to get these pearls of wisdom without you here?

So wherever she is now, and perhaps it is outside of space and time (where a shirtless Sawyer and a shirtless Sayid are undoubtedly shuttling her around the Ever After - and come on, let's be serious - even Grandma appreciates the hottness of Sawyer and Sayid in their groovy VW van - and why can't that be the pilot of the spinoff, Lindeloff??) I hope she's watching over me. And I hope there are endless, heavenly cartons of cigarettes, and secret mob meetings, and inappropriate chocolate candy pornsicles, and of course, hot cars WITH floors (Cadillacs!) and lots of laughter (as there always was). But most of all, I hope she knows I'm grateful for all the bizarre experiences she contributed, which ultimately helped make me the awesome lunatic I am today. Thank you for everything, Grandma. I miss you.

And now, as promised, here's an adorable puppy. In costume. (That's right. I went there.)