The Obsolete Man

 

What happened to blogging? Facebook, that's what. Facebook is certainly the reason I've barely touched this blog for 15 years. 

But now Facebook has disabled my profile and it certainly looks as though I won't get it back. Fifteen years' worth of images, memories, thoughts and discussions have been wiped away. 

Might have to start calling it Erasebook. 

Why my account was removed is anyone's guess. Officially, I got a message saying it didn't meet Community Standards for authenticity and account integrity. What might I have done to make Facebook think I wasn't really me? I haven't a clue. 

The same thing happened to an acquaintance from Chicago, Jon Trott. Jon has been able to start a new account. Thus far I haven't. 

After what happened to Jon, I did reflect on just how much of my Facebook content wasn't saved anywhere else. I thought about backing up my whole profile, just in case. Did I follow through with it? No. 

If you're reading this, back up your Facebook account now. If they did this to me and Jon, they can do ti to you. I can't tell you how to avoid my fate because I don't know why this happened. But I can tell you that if your Facebook content is important to you, then you should keep a copy of it somewhere besides Facebook.

Speculatively it's not hard to imagine that my outspoken political opinions pissed somebody off, and that person decided to report my profile to Facebook to get me in trouble — and somehow succeeded. But still, plenty of people express outspoken political opinions on Facebook without being erased. I have no idea what makes me different. 

And this is one of the ways Facebook contributes to tribalism and echo chambers. Should I return there I'll be less inclined to engage with people who don't share my opinion, since I would wish to avoid having them weaponize Facebook's profile-reviewing algorithms against me. Naturally I want to engage with people who think as I do; yet I don't wish to be cut off from those who think differently. But the instinct for self-preservation will likely result in limited interaction.

Also, even if I do manage to establish another account, I doubt I'll be taking Facebook's side in any future arguments about social media censorship.

My situation may not be quite as dire as Burgess Meredith's in "The Obsolete Man," but it does feel as though some totalitarian entity has declared me obsolete.  

So I've been trying to recall what I did before there was Facebook. Of course there was this blog, and there were the online discussion boards that preceded Facebook. But I also played my instruments a little more than I do now, and occasionally composed music. Like the Meredith character, I read the occasional book. Eric Larson's The Demon of Unrest sits on my desk; it had already hit its library due date before I even cracked it open. Perhaps now there will be time. 

Words for Will

Anon, it is sweet Shakespeare's day of birth,
And--which is more, and most convenient--
Upon this day was he return'd to earth;
The same day that he came, he also went.

Prithee, let iambs fall from every tongue,
In number, five; thus shalt thou form a line;
It is the sweetest rhythm ever sung;
With words thus build we Shakespeare's perfect shrine.

A measur'd word can scarcely go to waste;
We'd banish rancor, foolishness and spite
If all our words were chosen, form'd and plac'd
With all the care that poets take to write.

Rhyme if you can, or leave your verses blank,
But speak the speech--it's Will you have to thank.

Why you need an editor, 7.26.11

Acoustic trio (female lead vocals, guitar/vocals, guitar/mandolin/mandola/vocals) arraigning and performing contemporary and traditional Christian worship and praise music are seeking a couple mature and experienced believers/musicians/vocalists to help collaborate with our project.

Well, I've heard worship songs I don't care for, too, but that doesn't make them illegal.

You can't scare me, I'm stickin' with the onion

The following lyric, unfortunately, was written too late to submit to the Vidalia onion jingle contest, which I just learned about after the fact. Nonetheless:

i'm broke and unemployed, i'm living on the street
i wear a trash bag for a jacket and newspapers on my feet

life is bitter
but those onions are sweet

i used to move among society's elite
i'd point my pinky when i'd drink and wear a napkin when I'd eat
till that fateful dinner party, when my personal chef
used some onions that were bitter and left me with bad breath
i was dumped by my fiancee, i was fired by my boss
the kitchen caught fire, the mansion burned down and they called it a total loss
but one lesson that i learned from all this misery and failure
i'll never touch another onion unless it's a vidalia

life is bitter
but those onions are sweet

i'm a denizen of shelters, a patron of soup kitchens
a careworn face in the regular crowd down at the rescue mission
there's only two conditions on the onions that I'll eat
they'd better be vidalias and they'd better taste sweet
i've been to pecos valley
traveled up to walla walla
i've picked 'em out on maui
but there's no onion like vidalia

life is bitter
but those onions are sweet

plant your roses and your tulips
rhododendrons and azaleas 
nothin' smells as sweet to me 
as a plate of sliced vidalias

life is bitter
but those onions are sweet

No regrets?

Never trust people who say they have no regrets. A person with no regrets has never made a mistake big enough to learn from; never done anything important enough or risky enough to have unintended results; never had to choose the lesser of two evils. Or, worse yet, he or she HAS done all those things, and yet remains unaffected by their consequences, unencumbered by conscience.

Love and Theft—and Grand Larceny

Joni Mitchell was recently quoted as saying that Bob Dylan was unoriginal—stealing his musical ideas from other people. (I guess she failed to note that many of Dylan's sources, e.g., Woody Guthrie, weren't exactly noted for originality themselves.)

But there's still a difference between theft of that sort and the kind of theft where two gospel singers in Georgia break into churches and swipe $100,000 worth of equipment. Hey fellas—just because Jesus said he'd come like a thief in the night doesn't mean that you can.

The Tell-Tale Honky-Tonk

Been thinking the life and works of Edgar Allan Poe might lend themselves to loose adaptation as a gothic country song or two.

I'm a sweet and pleasant feller,
That's what everybody thinks
Because they haven't seen me
When I've had too many drinks.
It's not that I'm addicted,
I just never get enough.
And that's when I can do
Some really wild and crazy stuff.

My cousin Berenice died
And was buried down beneath,
But I went and dug her up again
And pulled out all her teeth.
They were so white and pearly,
And she had all thirty-two,
But honey, don't you worry—
I would never do that to you.

Then when that's finished, perhaps an Ernest Tubb parody:

I'm walkin' the floor over you 
You're six inches from the bottom of my shoe 
I hope you're staying cool and moist
Down there between the joists,
As I'm walkin' the floor over you.