I don't think I really have 89 'friends'

Originally published May 29, 2011, in the Lebanon Daily Record in Lebanon, Mo. I'm on Facebook, but I don't really know why. The only thing I like about it is the ability to "poke" people.

In case you're not an initiate, I'll explain. When you sign up for this thing on the Internet called "Facebook," you'll get a bunch of "friends." I don't know why this is so, but it is. I can't remember how it happened to me, but as of now I have 89 "friends," and I'm a Facebook lightweight. Some of my "friends" have hundreds of friends.

I can't remember the names of 20 people in real life, much less 89.

Looking through the list, however, I can't find anyone I don't know to some degree. The funny thing is, if we met on the street, many of us might not recognize each other.

But I know what many of them had for breakfast every day last week. I know what their plans are for the weekend and whether they're feeling down in the dumps.

It's crazy.

Facebook gives me faith that America still is the land of the indolent, jam-packed with people who have way too much time on their hands. For all the talk of our fast-paced, modern society, people still get on the computer and "LOL" at each other all day and all night.

Some of my "friends" are very busy people, but they still have time for Facebook. What do they do there? They relate every casual little detail of their lives ad nauseum.

For example, some guy got on Facebook last week and was ecstatic about the great hot dog he had for lunch.

Then the next day, the guy reported he had gone and got the same hot dog again for lunch. Did anyone care? Not likely.

(Well, all right, I'll admit it: That was me. But it was really a great hot dog. I walked down the street from the office and ordered a Mexican Dog. It has guacamole, cilantro, onions, tomatoes, cheese sauce and jalapenos.)

Facebook gets on my nerves because people who will hide their troubles beneath a veneer of cheeriness in real life will expose every little ache, pain and whine on Facebook.

I'm still in favor of putting up a strong front, suffering in silence, that sort of thing. I rarely offer sympathy, and I don't offer to pray for people who have a sprained finger. I'm a terrible Facebooker.

There are perks to Facebook, however. One of my "friends" is a state representative, for example. I didn't ask this state rep to be my "friend" because I need to get some legislation passed. I know him, but we've never watched baseball together or even had lunch, so it wasn't because of a close personal relationship.

I asked him to be my "friend" because I wanted to have the ability to "poke" him.

Poking is not real. There is neither a finger nor a stick involved.

Facebook just tells you that you have been "poked" and gives you the option to "poke back."

When he accepted my "friend" request, I LOL'd, because now I have the ability to "poke" a person who is important and get the somber Facebook message: "You have poked Darrell Pollock. He will be informed of this on his home page."

I would never poke Darrell Pollock in real life. I haven't poked him on Facebook either, but it's fun to know I could if I wanted.

Speaking of pokers, there is a guy who used to be a city political figure who didn't run for re-election in April.

He said he wanted to spend more time with his wife and family and concentrate on his career - but that was just a smokescreen.

Now instead of helping to run Lebanon, he has more time to poke people on Facebook.

Ken York is the assistant editor of The Daily Record. Past columns and other writings may be viewed at www.ken-york.blogspot.com. He can be reached at kyork@lebanondailyrecord.com.

The road to becoming Terrorist Cupid

I'm one of the stupid people in the world who never are able to resist a dare. I think that's what contributed to the current condition of my head.

A month or so ago, I accidentally got a very short haircut. Well, the barber did exactly what I asked, and if I was a little shocked by the results, there really is no one else to blame. I admit to having fun during the course of the next few days, going up to the folks who work in my building and asking them if they wanted to see something really scary, then removing my hat.

It's amazing I get any work done at all, truthfully.

Now, it should be understood that the reason for that short haircut was the economy. I can't stand the idea of forking over ten bucks a month for personal grooming.

Sometimes I grab the orange-handled scissors and go hack at it myself out in the yard. Once it's sufficiently trashed, I ask Joyce if she'll "even up the back." Probably it would make more sense if she just did the whole job, but unless she's confronted with a disaster and must take action, she's not overly eager to cut my hair.

When I do get a pro to do it, I want to get my money's worth and not have to come back for three months.

Dire predictions from my boss and coworkers followed me home the day of the ultra-haircut. Joyce was going to make me sleep outside with the chickens until it grew back some, they said. I tried not to let that hurt my feelings.

Of course Joyce was fine with it. I suspect it's not the outside of my head that retains its ability to frighten her. "You might as well go ahead and shave it," she said.

So we're back to the dare. Did I have the guts?

The amount of courage involved would be considerable, despite the fact that I constantly wear a baseball cap in public. Occasions exist in which I must remove my cap, however, like during the Pledge of Allegiance, the National Anthem and prayers.

If you are a reporter who covers local government meetings in the Ozarks, you get to remove your hat a lot. You Easterners and Yankees may be offended, but that's how we roll.

Artist's representation only.
No one really knows what Cupid looks like.

Saturday I shaved my head totally bald. Joyce talked me into keeping the eyebrows.


It's not as easy as it sounds. It took about 30 minutes and 10 disposable razors. Halfway through, I thought we had run out of razors. Wild stubs of soapy hair stuck in odd patches all over my head. Joyce, in horror, offered to go to the store and get more razors. Then we found some old ones in a drawer.

"I like it," Joyce said after the job was done. I took one look in a mirror and saw Terrorist Cupid. I haven't looked again.

It's a long weekend, and as I type this Sunday, there are about 44 hours remaining for it to grow back before I go to work Tuesday. Already there is prickly stubble to be felt when I run my hand over it, which I can't stop doing. My head is developing a five-o'clock shadow.

Tuesday morning, there is a county commission meeting. If I go in a little late, I'll miss the Pledge and the prayer, so I can keep the cap on.

Ken York is the assistant editor of The Daily Record in Lebanon, Mo. He and his wife, Joyce, live in the Ozark woods as far away from other people as they can get.