Facebook is now officially uncool.  Thanks, RNC.

Maybe we could all ask our 14-year-old daughters to write on their Facebook walls.

OK, I'm seriously not trying to do this all the time, but I really don't want to retype everything I've already written.

bleakonomy.blogspot.com/.../first-facebook-then-world.html

Complete and utter doofuses. So "Barack the Magic Negro" may not be the low point of the campaign for RNC chair.

What do you expect from the party whose Presidential candidates competed on how much they supported torture?

I love deleting emails. First to go, of course, is spam that somehow makes it through the filter. Then are those cute puppy photos and lame jokes and political tirades that disappear ever so slowly on the Internuts, like corncobs still recognizable months later on the compost pile. Then are work-related messages ("Congratulations Dave Helium, our new Associate Director of Title Inflation!") I can righteously ignore.

Deleting invitations from someone to be their "friend" on Facebook or some other networking site gives me special pleasure. More often than not the "friend" is no friend at all, merely the most superficial of acquaintances or, in some cases, a person I truly loathe.

Do I have a Facebook page, or a MySpace page, or a page on a similar site? Yeah, right.

If you want to count me among your "friends," here's what you need to do. Visit me in the hospital when I'm laid up. Or watch my animals for a couple days when I go to visit my people in San Diego. Or lend me money when I'm broke. Or get me in a room, look me in the eye, and tell me to stop drinking. Or show up for dinner with a dish you made from scratch. Or send me a heartfelt handwritten note after my mom dies. Or bail me out of jail. Or let me park my old Chevy pickup in your extra garage space for the few months I need to gather the scratch for a new clutch. Or put me on the payroll at your warehouse until things pick up at the hall.

Calling internet contacts "friends" is even sadder and more pathetic than thinking the guys and gals you see night after night at your neighborhood bar are your "friends." I can count my friends on one hand. There's a reason for that, it's a good thing, and I intend to keep it that way.

Tell you what: come to my funeral. After that, I'll know I can count you among my friends, and I'll be happy to join any networking site your heart desires.

Bill, if I'm in the area, I promise to come to your funeral, cry like a little girl, and remember some of your best posts.  If you find yourself in mid-Maine, I would happily buy you dinner.  Does that count?

Dan, I'll take you at your word about my funeral, so you're on!

Give me about a week's notice to clear my schedule, figure out a plausible lie to tell my co-workers, and fly to the Left Coast, and I'm there.  The offer for dinner requires less notice, and merely your proximity.

Dan, I'm envisioning an updated, silent-film version of "The Big Chill," with an ensemble gathering for my funeral, except instead of talking to each another they're all tap-tap-tapping on their laptops, their comments appearing as subtitles.

Come to think of it, if everyone starts keeping the mute button on at least we'd return to a quieter time--the tap of keys like the steady progression of rosary beads, beyond the window the "caw-caw-caw" of a crow heading home, perhaps the humble toot of an escaped fart.

Somehow I envisioned something more bacchanalian for you.  But the idea of a drunken evening of besotted blog commentary seems like a good synthesis.

OK . . . uh . . . oh shorry . . . I'll get y'nother . . . ok ok Dan Dan Daaaan! . . .  Lishen up . . . we should POSHT . . . who wantsh t'hit SHUBMIT?

Someone should have asked about the size of their tools.