Humor by John Christmann
Faceless In New Jersey
I am not sure why, but I decided to open up a Facebook account. It was a totally humiliating experience. I realized that in the book of my life, not only do I have no friends; I don’t even have a face.
Indulge me while I wallow in self pity.
Since their inception several years ago, I have been curious about the growing use of Internet services like Facebook and MySpace, services which provide a bulletin board of sorts where people can form groups and share information without actually having to get together.
For someone like me, who is a social idiot, the idea of being in a club without actually meeting with people is kind of intriguing. And although I have concerns about socializing with a string of vague acquaintances, exposing them to beard stubble and garlic breath is not among them. I could see the possibilities.
But for a long time these sites seemed to be the domain of the young, and I am not one to impinge on the culture of teens. There is nothing quite so ridiculous as a middle-aged man trying to reclaim his youth by acting like a teenager. I mean, like, it is so not cool.
While it is true that I wear sandals and baggy pants and my hair is often shaggy and tousled, I hardly think of myself as a youthful Abercrombie and Fitch model. This is just how I look in the morning. If I were really young and cool I wouldn’t be wearing socks that don’t match right now.
The truth is, if anyone actually met me I doubt they would ever let me into their circle of Facebook friends. Like I said, I could see the possibilities.
But recently I started hearing that social networking is perfectly acceptable for people like me: clueless adults who are afraid of appearing clueless. It seems that it is now an acceptable place to connect with far flung people of all ages. The Facebook pool is open for adult swim and I was eager to jump in without a swimming lesson. Or a swim suit for that matter.
Of course, I was careful. I don’t know what kind of diseases you can catch from social networking, but they can’t be good. So to protect myself I put a plastic bag over my laptop and responsibly googled Facebook.
My first humiliation was signing up. Facebook wanted me to identify myself. No fake names like Brad Pitt or Heywood Jabusoff or Abraham Lincoln. Facebook wanted my real name, my email address, where I was born, the name of my favorite pet, and the color of my first car. And that was just to secure a password.
Next I had to identify information I consider highly personal, like where I graduated from high school, whether I was interested in men or women, if I had a favorite movie, or if I was or ever had been a communist.
I’m sorry, but I really don’t want the whole world to know that I slept with a sock monkey named Dr. Zhivago right up until the day I graduated from High School in Glenview, Illinois. Facebook was urging me to identify the very information I want to disguise for fear that no one will want me in their social circles. It even asked if I wear socks that don’t match.
But the ultimate humiliation occurred when I was prompted to upload a picture of myself.
Since I am the official photographer in my house, this should not have been a problem. Ever since my children were born I have been the master of point and click, first with the digital camera, then with the mouse. Over the years I have collected so many digital images that I recently purchased a backup drive to store them all. By the time the transfer was complete my new system was out of warranty.
As a result, I have hundreds of file folders on my computer with intriguing names like September that are filled with thousands of digital photos cataloged with equally insightful identifications such as DCS12015 or Copy of DSC12015. And now, in an effort to shamelessly offer myself up as a friend to any one that would have me, I had to wade through an ocean of photos to find one of myself. This is when I discovered that I have no face.
You see, I took all of the pictures. The few photos where I am present my children snapped, and my head is either out of the frame or is blocked by a large UFO which looks suspiciously like a finger passing over the lens.
I can see it now. One day my grandchildren will ask, “Why didn’t grandpa go with you to Disneyland?” and my adult children will say “He did! He is the one taking the picture!” and they will pause in the glow of endless electronic memories parading before them, and ask, “Why did he take so many?”
Sadly, I may have spent more time recording memories than making them.
It took two hours to search through my computer for a picture of myself for Facebook. I found three. One was a photo of my foot. I guess I clicked too early. The other was a photo of me with a camera in front of my face. It was shot by a buddy of mine in California. He has one just like it of him. It was my art phase.
The third was a photo I took of myself in the mirror holding the camera at my chest. The outline of my head is just visible within the blinding white reflection of the camera flash. I took the photo a couple of years ago when I renewed my passport. The passport agency rejected my self portrait and took one for me. “But I look just like Jesus!” I said in my defense as a photographer.
Fortunately for me, Facebook supplies a stock cameo image, complete with hair that sticks up. I pictured my face in the white foreground of the cameo. The cameo was slimmer and much better formed, so I happily went with it.
Then I carefully crafted a clever message, one designed to connect myself with humanity and make me appear less creepy than I felt at that very moment.
Hi. My name is John. My socks match. Will you be my friend?
Two days later I excitedly pulled up my account. Under my faceless cameo was a status message. It was short and to the point. It said this:
John Christmann has 0 friends.
The 0 was highlighted so that I would not be confused by the message. It was the final humiliation.
I was hunched over the computer when my wife entered the room.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Oh, I am feeling sorry for myself.”
She came over and put a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Why?” she asked.
“Because I have no face and I have no friends and I have no idea why I am even doing this,” I said.
She laughed. It was the laugh of someone who knows me better than I know myself.
My son came into the room also. He was wearing baggy, wrinkled pants. His hair was rough and tousled. He wasn’t wearing socks. He is a young teenager. Before long he will be adroitly roaming the streets of sites like Facebook.
“What are you guys talking about?”
“Your father has no face and no friends.”
He stared at my face for a minute, then looked back to his mother.
“And your point is?” he said.
And right at that moment I knew exactly what the point was. I don’t need Facebook. I have friends that I contact all the time; friends that give me joy without requests. I have a loving family that pokes fun at me all the time because it is not only allowed, it is encouraged. I even have a face that shines in the mirror.
What I don’t have is a good understanding of the expanded world that my children are being exposed to. And as a parent, I just cannot afford to be clueless.
I didn’t enroll in Facebook to make new friends, I went there as a responsible adult who wants to check out the neighborhood where his kids will soon be hanging out. And if in the mean time I run across some old friends or make some new ones, so much the better. It is, after all, a really big neighborhood.
I jumped up laughing and gave my son a hug. “Thanks,” I told him sincerely, “I feel much better, now!”
He scratched his head, somewhat puzzled by my reaction, and gave me the skewed glance that teens hone specifically for clueless adults. Then he slapped me warmly on the back.
“Hey,” he reassured me, “What are friends are for?”
© 2009 Dadinthebox.com