Haters Unite

Are you a Brett Favre hater who feels sad, alone and like nobody out there is listening to what you have to say?

Probably not, because lets be serious... every red blooded man alive dislikes Favre for some reason or another and chooses to talk about how they'll freak out if he un-retires again at length in the presence of other men whenever possible.

However, if you want an organized outlet through which you can channel your Brett Favre rage, some friends of mine started a petition to keep him from getting coverage or something blah blah blah sports sports I only watch football for the social aspect... wait what was I talking about?

My interest in Favre is only as deep as the roots of his silver fox hair and the "Carve the Favre" Pats sweatshirt I had in 1996 , but if you're fascinated and want to learn more, check it out here: http://nobrettfavrecoverage.com/

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Her Hair is So Big Because It's Full of Secrets

So, yesterday, I’m sitting at work bored to tears when out of the blue, my friend saves me by sending over an article that encapsulates the greatest bit of female fashion bitchery this side of Regina George from Mean Girls. (Gretchen Weiners: Two years ago she told me hoops earrings were *her* thing and I wasn't allowed to wear them anymore. And then for Hanukkah my parents got this pair of really expensive white gold hoops and I had to pretend like I didn't even like them and... it was so sad.) Having never been part of a sorority, this article – in which the president of Cornell’s Pi Phi dictates what girls who are rushing should and should not wear to events - both horrified and amused me in equal parts.

I’ll save you the pain of having to read the SEVEN pages of dos and don’ts by including some of my favorite highlights below:

Clothing:
-No satin dresses. No one looks good in satin dresses unless it’s from Betsey Johnson or Dolce & Gabbana, you weigh less than 130 pounds, have three pairs of Spanx on and it’s New Years Eve.

Makeup:
-No sultry eye makeup. It’s noon people. And these are girls, not laxers. No need to seduce them with caked on black eye makeup. (Ed Note: Can any laxers out there attest to whether or not “caked on black eye makeup” is an effective form of seduction? Maybe at Cornell?)
-No mustaches. (Ed Note: I think that one should probably be a given.)

I know that many of our readers out there lived through a period of time where they had a sorority sister or fraternity brother dictating their every move, so maybe this doesn’t seem as absurd to everyone else as it does to me. Or maybe it does. Whichever side of the fence you land on, I think there is one thing we can all agree on. That AMDAL is deeply lacking an over the top sorority style code of conduct! Don’t worry fair readers – I’m here to take care of that! I channeled my best Regina George to create these rules, and if you follow them, you’ll, like, TOTES be inducted into the circle of trust.

Take Good LiveBlogs:
No members of Alpha Beta AMDAL want to see pictures of you “having an awesome time” unless it’s at the hottest party in town. Don’t even THINK about posting a LiveBlog taken anywhere other than Marquis or Mansion. Super double bonus points if you’re sharing a bottle with a Jersey Shore cast member. Chapter President MLR will make you do a quick six if you even think about posting some lame-o pictures of you and your “bros” at a house party or something.

Keep Good Company:
Imagine this: You’re at a party and you want to talk to this super hot chick you met in the juice line in the cafeteria. And then this NERD from your history class (who has glasses… and a ponytail!) swoops in and starts talking to you about like, Thomas Hancock or whatever. Then, the hot girl will think you’re a nerd by association. The lesson here? We can only be as cool as the blogs to which we link. So stay away from nerdy shizz like CNN or whatever. More Twilight, less politics!

Wear Good Outfits:
When reading AMDAL from the comfort of your office desk, it’s really super important that you do it in style. I’m like, legit serious when I say everyone needs to be wearing (at least!) one carat diamond studs and skinny Seven jeans. Men, women, children, puppies. No exceptions. And none of that Patagonia stuff. I mean, I heard it’s made from like recycled bottles or something. EW CITY! The same goes for flannel. And bad facial hair (Unless it’s Movember. See: Do Good Charity Work). If you’re having any doubts in the morning, look at yourself in the mirror and repeat this mantra: This is not a blog for mountain men.

Make Good Comments:
So, one time this girl Krystal Adams told everyone that my formal dress looked like something a blind fifth grader made out of cotton candy. Like, LITERALLY everyone. Except me. But I still found out it was her, because my super loyal BFF Tracy Jones told me (Hi Tracy! LOLZZZZZ). And then I was double mad because she insulted my dress and talked about me behind my back. Let this story be a lesson to you if you’re ever thinking about making bitchy anonymous comments on this blog. Sure, you might not agree with my fashion choices, but like, be man enough to admit to my face that you don’t think the velvet-tulle combo is working out.

Do Good Charity Work: Once, somebody told me about this Rockerfeller guy (I think it was that same nerdy girl from History class that I was talking about before). Apparently, he, like, was really rich and stuff, but he had a bad rep for putting all these sucky little oil refineries out of business. So, when he wanted people to start liking him again, he started giving away tons of money to charities and poor people and stuff, and it totally worked! So, don’t worry if you accidentally flashed the whole lacrosse team your undies in the middle of a freak windstorm or peed in some girl’s bed and she told all her friends about it. You can make them forget about these indiscretions by doing nice stuff for other people! Note: This strategy is especially effective if you do it in public so everyone can see you!

Listen to Good Jams: Pretending to know a lot about music is a great way to start conversations with people at cocktail parties and mixers, and a ginormous part of being an Alpha Beta AMDAL is being able to present yourself well in public. Even if your iPod is full of Journey and Taylor Swift (I mean, not like I don’t totes get the chills every time I hear that Romeo and Juliet song, it’s just that nobody wants to hear about it), all the information you need to talk about really cool rap and hipster music is right at your fingertips in MLR’s Jam of the Week post. Who knows – impressing someone with a thrilling debate about the merits of Gucci Mane vs. Little Wayne might just snag you a last minute date to formal.

Eat Good Food: And lastly, everyone knows having a hot bod is a super important part of being a blogger. Nobody wants to see your muffin tops jiggle when you type. So stick with CCL’s healthy recipes for dinner. And then the rest of the time, don’t eat anything – and every time you feel like you’re going to faint, eat a cube of cheese.

Helping Haiti + Hot Charity Babes = Everybody Wins

Dear AMDAL Readers,

I come to you today with a request, and I can promise you that if you follow me to the promise land I'm about to unveil, it will end - as Michael Scott would say - in a win-win-WIN situation.

One Saturday a month, I volunteer at an awesome organization called the Lower East Side Girls Club, which focuses on helping low-income NYC girls prepare for college, gain exposure to cultural events, find mentors who will help them realize their potential, learn entrepreneurial skills, etc. Learn more here.

Now for the fun part. On Mardi Gras (Tuesday, February 16th), we're hosting an event to benefit the Girls Club and also Haitian relief efforts. It is awesome for 3 reasons:

Win #1) With your $22 advance ticket, you'll be simultaneously helping girls from NYC become more empowered while also helping those affected by the earthquake in Haiti.

Win #2) You will do this while meeting hot charity babes. As a majority of the volunteers for the organization are female, this guarantees a high female - male ratio. Scos, I'm looking at you.

Win #3) Whilst romancing a hot do-gooder, you will be enjoying a free open bar from 7-8, the authentic New Orleans band "The Loose Marbles" and NYC’s Hungry March Band.

So let me recap this for you. Philanthropy + Hot Chicks + Awesome entertainment = Win win win.

Tickets are available at: http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/95818

If you have any questions, please leave them in the comments and I'll do my best to answer them. Hope to see you all there! I think this could be a good opportunity for an AMDAL NYC contributors face-to-face meet up.

2010 Predictions

Hi friends. Long time, no see. I deeply regret my prolonged absence for many reasons.Most especially because I had to forgo the opportunity to joke about, “Seeing you next year,” one of my all time favorite moves, circa every December 23rd of my elementary school career. I’ve been enveloped in a deep, dark, time-sucking pit also known as the pre-holiday scramble to get projects done for clients before the start of vacation. Many 2am nights and early mornings spent at work, actually working, left me unable to write the glorious contributor gift guide that I had planned. Before you could say, “Le Crueset Crock Pot for CCL” I was whisked away to work on a 175 slide Keynote deck until my eyeballs bled. Anyway, with 2010 upon us, I decided my belated gift to all of you would be to put my uncanny senses to work predicting what glorious things would befall AMDAL contributors in the coming year.* And here we go....


CCL: A Food Network executive, eager to find a new chef who can compete in the Martha Stewart timeslot, comes across CCL’s posts on AMDAL. After reading Coq au Vin and Ambien Sex, they realize that she has a special talent and the potential to pioneer a new cooking show model, something no other Food Network chef has done before her. Recognizing her ability to seamlessly combine pop culture and food in a way that fascinates and intrigues even the most epicuriously challenged, CCL is invited to work with the Food Network to develop a primetime show that’s a cross between E! News and Giada. For her debut, she has her cousin on as a guest to make marshmallow filled chocolate cupcakes and unveil his Tiger Woods theory. Immediately, forensic scientists from NASA pursue this highly plausible scenario, recreating the exact conditions using Tiger and Elin look-alikes. It is inevitably proven that this is EXACTLY how the scandal played out, and CCL and CCLCousin are awarded the Nobel Peace prize for saving the world from Tiger Woods Skank Scandal 2009-2010.

BMartin/Apple Symbol: BMar, upon graduating from Law School, adds another line to his already voluminous email signature. Much like what was supposed to happen on the verge of the millennium, this makes his signature spill over into two pages, upsetting the delicate balance of the internets. As computers worldwide short circuit, causing mass pandemonium, Apple Symbol quickly recognizes the opportunity to put all of his technology knowledge to good use. He quickly tracks down Al Gore (knowing that he’s probably at NBC studios preparing to ham it up on every single sitcom they air during Green Week), and like Batman and Robin, the pair work in perfect synchronicity to correct the issue. Their brilliant solution, involving the finagling of wires, electrons and other things about which I know nothing, revolutionizes the internet, reduces computer generated greenhouse gas emissions by 50% and allows all law school grads to list as many accomplishments in their email signatures as they want. And all becomes right in the world. From here on out, Apple Symbol and Al Gore are known as the Internet A’s – a team of computer malfunction fighting vigilantes on which several major motion pictures will be based.

Scos: While applying for business school, Scos decides that a good way to stand out from other candidates is to include “Co-Editor of AllMyDealsAreLive.com” on his resume under the Other Interests section. Upon reviewing his application, the admissions directors come across this tidbit of information and, intrigued by the blog’s clever title, decide to check out some of Scos’ work. While initially, they’re concerned by the number of porn and fart jokes, they find themselves inexplicably drawn to his posts and unable to stop reading. They notice that his Random Thoughts are balanced by detail-rich political debates and also find that, judging by the high number of comments his work generates, that he must be popular and well respected amongst his peers. And even though this prediction scenario is slightly reminiscent of Elle Wood’s video diary application for Harvard Law (in which she lists “background dancer in a Ricky Martin video” and “designer of a line of faux-fur panties” among her many accomplishments and manages to get in based solely off these items, with absolutely no academic consideration) they decide that Scos will bring much needed diversity of interests (porn, fart jokes, boobs, Sarah Palin), humor and creativity to the incoming class. This exact scenario happens at each and every school he applies to and he gets into all of them.

Mikey: After pushing mean Anon to the breaking point by posting 10-20 new LiveBlogs a day, Anon uses MLR’s roadtrip posts to stalk him across the country seeking revenge. After looking for our fearless editor in many a Diner, Drive-thru and Dive, Anon finally tracks him down on the mean streets of Haight-Ashbury, where they engage in hand-to-hand combat. MLR emerges victorious, having serendipitously been listening to a Karate for Dummies book on tape as his main source of road trip entertainment. After one too many piledrivers to the gut, Anon surrenders and agrees to let his true identity be published on the blog for all to see. MLR immediately LiveBlogs a photo of a battered and humiliated Anon, making him a national hero and earning him a glorious tickertape parade and lifetime supply of the fancy champagne of his choice (which he shares with the other contributors at the “Defeat of Anonymous” celebration gala). Anon is sent to jail for stalking and intent to cause harm, where his punishment is to watch a continuous slideshow of all the LiveBlogs ever published, for the rest of eternity.

Block: Consumed by the never-ending game of Farmville, Block continues to hatch chicks and raise adorable brown cows from calf-hood until all contributors lucky enough to be his Facebook friends get so fed up with the incessant updates on their news feed that they defriend Block in a fit of anti-agrarian rage. Block, deeply hurt by this thoughtless, hasty behavior, breaks away from AMDAL to start his own blog, Goodmoviebettermovie.com. A major LA studio exec stumbles across his genius Photoshop work, and hires him as both a movie poster creator and a plot consultant. Block wins a Golden Globe for coming up with the genius twist of making Amy Adam’s fiancé in Leap Year a brain-eating zombie, instantly making this formerly sappy rom-com into a blockbuster megahit. He continues on this newfound path of fame and fortune until one day he tragically gets caught up in a game of Mafia Wars, causing him to not leave the house for three weeks straight. He loses his new job at the studio for failing to prevent the disastrous release of Adventureland 2 while absorbed by this virtual turf war. This event opens up his eyes to the error of his Facebook game ways, and decides to devote all of his extra energy to saving the children of Africa and writing awesome posts on AMDAL – two very worthy causes indeed.

AOG/ARod: Following a hectic holiday season, AOG and ARod decide to escape to Costa Rica for a secluded “love vacation.” (AOG’s terminology, not mine.) Months go by, but nobody hears from them. Concerned, MLR sends out a search party, armed with sunblock and surfboards, to find our favorite contributing couple. After days of searching and nights of enjoying pina coladas at swim up beach bars, we come across the happy pair only to find that somehow, ARod has converted AOG into a Prius-driving, feminist-sympathizing, beach-hut-dwelling hippie. We try to convince them to move back to the US, only to find that they’ve started a moderately successful line of handcrafted, all natural hemp swim trunks worn by Obama on his Hawaiian vacations. Happy with their expat status and swimwear success, they use their newfound fortune to open up a beachfront inn exclusively for the AMDAL community. After weeks of rest and relaxation on the South American shores, AMDAL contributors return to work with a renewed vigor and post so many awesome articles that our blog simultaneously reaches 1 million hits and wins a Pulizter for blogging (a new category in 2010 created for the sole reason of recognizing the flowing, perfect prose, side splitting humor and hard hitting journalism that coexist on AMDAL like nowhere else).

Apologies to any contributors whose futures I’ve been unable to see. After all of these clear, incredibly accurate predictions, my crystal ball started to go a little fuzzy. I welcome anyone else who considers themselves a gifted psychic to add their predictions in the comments. And as for whether these will come true, only 2010 knows for sure. Happy waiting!

* Makens waives any responsibility for the accuracy of these predictions.

A Confession

This photo displays how mythical creatures can live in perfect harmony.

If a vampire, werewolf and undead Mario can't get along, who can?

Can you hear that in the distance? No? Listen closely. Ahhh there it is. The terrifying sound of millions of teen girls losing their shit. Unless you live in a hole, or maybe in Hanover, you know that last week marked the much awaited release date of the second installment of Twilight. You can’t sign onto a legitimate American website these days without seeing reviews for New Moon and pictures of Taylor Lautner’s abs plastered across the homepage. Odds are some creepy middle-aged secretary in your office took a day off last week to wait in line for tickets. Or your younger sister/girlfriend/mom has Robert Pattenson’s mug taped up all over her room. In fact, things have gotten so out of hand that if I found out that my dad’s copy of American Lion was actually one of those hollowed out books inside which he secretly kept a copy of Breaking Dawn, I’m not entirely sure I’d be surprised.


So that’s why I chose to read Twilight, despite my better instincts. Because this phenomenon touches us all. And there aren’t enough safe words in the English language to stop it.

I figured this would be a good medium for my confession. We at AMDAL are nothing if not topical. If a post about Twilight, the greatest craze of our time, doesn’t fit that criterion, then I’m not quite sure what does (Wars? Recessions? Doubt it. Nothing is more topical than mythical creatures. See also, Block’s post on zombies.) And during some of our more momentous political debates, we’ve stressed the importance of taking a fair and balanced view of topics by educating ourselves on both sides of the issues at hand. I just couldn’t go on bashing something with no knowledge as to how good or bad it actually was. It’s like DMB – I mean, can that many people can’t be wrong? For all I knew, I was missing out on a literary masterpiece.

Now, as it turns out, I wasn’t. But to make all of my toiling through what can only be described as “vampire romance” feel worthwhile I’ve decided to share some of the excuses I’ve been forced to spin in the last few weeks. There’s nothing worse than the look of horror and pity on friends’ faces when you admit you have indulged in supernatural abstinence parables. So, just in case Edward Cullen fooled you too, here’s my handy dandy guide to how to lie your way out of an awkward Twilight confession moment:

1. My 18 Year Old Sister Made Me Do It
This excuse is especially great if you’re talking to someone who also has younger siblings. If all goes well, you can parlay it into a conversation about how many times your adorable little sis tricked you into watching The Little Mermaid when you were kids or how many years you had to pretend to believe in Santa, despite figuring out the ruse in 1992 due to one sloppy mistake on your mom’s part involving a doll that peed and a very thin Bradlee’s shopping bag.

2. Because Rob Pattinson’s in the Movie
Use this if you’re deep in conversation with a Harry Potter reader or any female superfan. If you’re lucky, the former will likely diverge on a tangent about how the random kid from the Goblet of Fire movie managed to land it big and become a huge heartthrob out of nowhere. If it’s the latter, a simple comment about how you WERE on Team Edward until you saw New Moon, but how you’re now on Team Jacob, will likely get you shunned, providing an easy exit from the conversation.

Accio faux hawk!

3. I Wanted to Perform an Analysis of How Stephanie Meyer Modeled Edward and Bella’s Relationship on that of Famous Literary Couples
This is perfect if the desired reaction is an over the top eye roll combined with an under the breath, “get a life.” Odds are this person won’t want to talk to you about anything after this, which could actually be a good thing depending on who it is. Warning: This approach is not for use with someone who could potentially be a secret lit nerd, as it could lead to an excruciating conversation around similarities between Edward and Darcy. Once this starts, I predict you’ll be looking to take a vamp fang to the eye.

4. I Enjoy Books That Make Me Feel Like the Author is Mocking My Intelligence
This is perfect if you know the person you’re speaking with actually read and enjoyed Twilight and you’re looking to horribly offend them.

5. I’m Actually an Abstinent Teetotaler and Was Happy to Finally Find a Book I Can Relate To
This works if you’re any of the following:
1. Mormon
2. Steve Carrell’s character from the 40 Year Old Virgin
3. A master of sarcasm

How NOT to get swine flu. An essay in 5 parts, by Makens

I’d like to take time out from my usual column, “I Do Embarrassing Shit and Then Write About It,”* for a very important public service announcement about the dance craze terrible flu epidemic that’s sweeping the nation. That’s right, friends, we’re talking about H1N1. I know, I know. I’m sick of swine flu jokes too. That’s why I’m doing my part to eradicate this terrible virus by helping the AMDAL community join forces against it. * *

That said, I do think it helps to take your Tamaflu with a spoonful of sugary, syrupy humor. So, without further ado, Makens’ Top Tips for a Swine Free Holiday (i.e.g. Halloween, the only holiday that matters) Season.***

Tip #1: Don’t play quarters at Sophie’s, one of New York’s most preeminent dive bars, in the height of Swine Flu season. Don’t chant H-1-N-1-Clap-Clap-Clap-Clap-Clap every time the quarters fall on to the floor or into stagnant puddles of liquid that are forming on the table. Definitely don’t try and bounce these undoubtedly infested monetary units into your cups of beer. If you do happen to do any or all of these things, please be sure to read tips 2-5 all the more closely.

Tip #2: Gargle. Do it even if your girlfriend thinks it sounds weird and gross. Do it with Listerine. Do it with salt water. Do it with shots of vodka. I don’t care what you use, as long as it has little germ killers who will camp out on your tonsils and lay the smack down on the H1N1 squatters, who are undoubtedly planning to imitate Central Park’s hobbit population and pitch their little microbial tents on your tonsils for the long haul.

Tip #3: Watch this video.
Debate for 10-15 minutes whether or not the lady demonstrating the proper use of a Neti Pot is:

a) The subject of a lobotomy gone terribly wrong. Or actually, I guess, right.
b) Dead inside.
c) An alien from the Planet Teegeeack

She scares the shit out of me. I am going to have nightmares about her tonight. And she’ll be doing alternating toe touches. But that’s not the point. Disregard the fact that her eyes are devoid of life, and look at the valuable swine flu prevention tactic she taught us. This lady is like the MacArthur of the Anti-Swine Flu Army. Why? Nasal irrigation is KEY to staying healthy. The saline fluid kills all the little infectious buggers that like to loiter in your nose on their way to Throatsville. If the idea of hosing down your nostrils is unappealing, for some strange reason, you can also take the wimpier, less aquatic route and swab your nostrils with salt water and a q-tip. Feel free to submit videos of yourself doing either.

Tip #4: Don’t touch your face. This was one of the vaguer things I learned from the Health Departments PSA pamphlet. Like, don’t touch my face ever? What if I have to put on make up in the morning? Or I get some peanut butter smeared on my cheek while I’m eating my daily walk-to-work PBJ? And if I have an itch? I’m just supposed to leave it? But that’s so uncomfortable.

Tip #5: This one comes courtesy of my Vegan Buddhist Co-Worker, and not, say, the CDC. While I really admire her dedication to spirituality, I’ll admit that this seems a little counter intuitive. I figure I’d include it to cover my karmic bases, though. As AMDAL blows up, there is a significantly higher chance that at least one of our readers out there is a Buddhist Lama. This one’s for you, Lapsang.

Anyway, she suggests that in order to stay free of swine flu, we should contribute positive energy into the world by helping, caring for and thinking of people who are sick. Willing exposing myself to germs seems like the exact opposite of what one would want to do in this situation, but it seems to be working for her so far. I’ll keep everyone posted if it turns out a healthy diet of yoga, tofu and selflessness doesn’t prove to be the best defense against a worldwide flu pandemic.



So stay healthy AMDAL. Because I hear nothing kills the homecoming spirit like a bout of uncontrollable vomiting and diarrhea, accompanied by a stabbing sore throat and the inability to get out of bed for two weeks.


*Gratuitous Footnote: Not that I didn’t do anything embarrassing this week, though. I just can’t make whole posting out of it. The stand out contestant for a post was more of a short moment, rather saturated with awkwardness. This is opposed to my usual lengthy anecdotes, where the awkwardness is evenly distributed among the molecules of normality and sanity for approximately one word doc page’s length of time.

* *Serious Footnote: After watching my little sister lose a healthy friend to what I had previously regarded as “nothing to worry about,” I started taking this brethren of bacon slightly more seriously. While I aimed to approach this post with a little humor, I hope everyone takes the right measures toward staying healthy, whatever that may be for you individually.

***Funny Footnote, unless you’re someone who wants to sue me, in which case this is actually a VERY legal disclaimer: Makens is not a doctor. (You’re thinking of Apple Symbol.) These tips do not guarantee that you won’t get swine flu. They’re merely meant as a PSA, taken from a pamphlet read to her during staff meeting today by her office manager.

Things I Wish I Thought of First

While doing some research for a recent project, my coworker and I came across this little gem of a website. The four most amazingly random things about this blog are:

1) The part where Obama is photoshopped into a fresco on the Sistine Chapel ceiling. I'm not even going to try to delve into what they're getting at with that one. It just looks funny.
2) The fact that it's called "Kabobfest." Who doesn't love a good kabob?
3) The article about remaking classic movies with leaders of the Arab World in the main roles. Two words: Sheer genius.
4) That this article ends with a "Tarboush Tip." A quick Googling shows me that a Tarboush is a type of Fez, which means we're looking at the Middle Eastern version of a hat tip! Are these bloggers our Arab brethren??! I sure hope so.

Things like this always make me question my creativity and wonder if I'm even cut out for this whole writing thing. I mean, if I couldn't think of comedy gold like a remake of the Lifetime Channel Original Movie "Not Without My Daughter" starring Ahmadinejad in the role of Oscar winning actress Sally Field, then do I even deserve to blog?

P.S. That photo is a real screen grab of King Abdullah of Jordan in StarTrek.

P.P.S. Here is a gratuitous photo of his wife, Queen Rania, for all you gentlemen out there. It's been a slow news day...

The Amherst Theory

"So, um, did you happen to go to Amherst?"

As awesome as it is to write about how I make a spectacle of myself on a pretty much daily basis, I’ve decided to postpone my weekly awkward column in favor of writing about something less, well, awkward. (Stay tuned for a thrilling odyssey about my fear of pigeons, which will be posted in a few days time though. Please, contain your excitement.) The topic of this post is something I haven’t thought about in a while – having conveniently and inadvertently circumvented the issue via Zog Sports -- but it recently was brought to my attention by a friend and I felt it could be interesting to hear everyone’s thoughts on the matter.

Well, to get to the point, dating in the city can be hard. Really, really hard. And not just in New York. I think this applies to all cities, everywhere. While New York can be particularly isolating, and there is a certain feeling that all people, everywhere, think they’re cooler/smarter/richer/better than you, it’s ultimately not the male-female (or male-male, or female-female, or post-op transsexual-confused New Jersey businessman) interaction that’s all that difficult. I believe it’s the transition from college dating to real world dating that initially presents the challenge. In the real world, getting drunk and rubbing up against someone at a keg party will likely result in arrest, as opposed to a hook up. This makes it necessary to figure out an alternate way to crack the dating code.

In college, you usually don’t need an introduction to the person you have your eye on. Odds are, you know their name, age, hometown, class schedule and about fifteen different things you have in common just from your day-to-day interactions and the fact that you spend all your waking hours within a ½ mile radius of one another. And if, against all odds, you don’t know anything about this person because, say, they live under a rock, you can easily find someone who can vouch for your target. Maybe they’re in the Star Wars club together or both play on the lacrosse team. Regardless, if you’re wary of a person’s credentials or want to know more about their interests you can usually find a mutual friend who will either vouch for them or corroborate any rumors you’ve heard about their rampant drug use and/or alleged third nipple.

In your post college years, your options can become surprisingly more limited. One hot summer night, many years ago, my friends and I sat around debating the challenge of dating in the city and they eventually drew two conclusions. My more conservative lady friend insisted you should really only limit yourself to the wading pool of your acquaintances and their subsequent friend circles. Her logic was that in a big, often dangerous city, you really need a third party voucher for anyone you want to date. A friend of a friend is a safe bet because you have someone to tell you if they’ve ever been incarcerated or have a secret stripper fetish. You also have the added bonus of an introduction, ready-made small talk and someone to turn to when you think your date lied about having to reschedule due to a fantasy baseball draft. Of course, the challenge here is: What happens when you run out of friends of friends? Isn’t the whole point of living in a big city full of attractive people to get out there and sample the diverse and exotic fare, instead of spinning your wheels with people who aren’t all that different from those you went to college with?

Well, you can also dive into a veritable ocean of eligible men and women that exists within city limits if you’re willing to meet people in bars – but this method isn’t without its own risk. Millions of options could lead to tons of interesting and diverse dates. It could also mean dedicating precious time to get to know someone you met under the influence of alcohol and could have spent the last 25 years as a nomadic goat herder, for all you know. Sure, it can be exciting, but it can also be a grand waste of time. My more adventurous, risk taking friend, calls her approach to dating the Amherst Theory. She believes that by striking up a basic conversation with someone, you can infer a lot of things about what kind of person they are and decide if it’s worth pursuing - essentially many of the same things you could find out through a mutual friend. For instance, if you’re into preppy, NESCAC types, by chatting up a guy and finding out he went to Amherst will help him pass some initial hurdles – he's probably smart, the victim of a liberal arts education, potentially athletic, unlikely to be a serial killer… dare I say a little fratty? But really, how much can you infer beyond what’s totally superficial? And even if things do work out, for the rest of your life do you have to tell people you met in a booze-fueled frenzy at a bar every time you’re asked?

I guess the bottom line is, since these are obvious generalizations, it’s not like there aren’t going to be people that defy both of these theories. It’s just that they provide additional hurdles to what can already be a rejection laden and emotionally complicated process. Friend #1 took the safe route and is in a happy relationship with a friend of a friend of a friend with whom she went to Jewish summer camp. Friend #2 happened to randomly meet her boyfriend at a bar, where they talked for hours and she found out he was a Harvard Law/UVA grad with a good job and love of Bluegrass. (Personally, I’m convinced she entered into this relationship with the express goal of proving her theory right.) But while things worked out for her, you still have to keep in mind more extreme stories like that of the alleged Craigslist killer, which warns against befriending someone just because they look good on paper or make a great first impression.


So, ultimately I must ask you, dear readers: Is the best course of action to just let things happen naturally? Is it to just keep your options open and your guard up, and hope for the best? Do you tap into the hidden treasure chest known as coed, recreational sports and accidentally come out with a relationship? I guess there aren’t any absolute laws and if there are, I certainly don’t know them. Please, help us form a more scientific theory by leaving any successes/failures/funny stories in the comments.

Home is Where the Brew Is

What has a good sense of humor, write ups in major New York news sources and the ability to simultaneously make you feel drunk and accomplished?

Why, the Brooklyn Brew Shop of course.

I don’t know what it is, but the idea of brewing my own beer sounds particularly rewarding. I’ve always been a fan of brewery visits and the “when in Rome” philosophy of trying to buy local ales whenever possible. I delight in a good microbrew and enjoy when a beer has a story or history. Combine all of this with a love for creating things – whether it’s ad copy, a gourmet meal or an attempt at art – and I think I’d be the perfect candidate for a home brewing venture. Except for that whole part where it appears to be an incredibly daunting process. I'm 97% convinced I'd poison someone without proper supervision.

Enter my friend, Erica, over at the Brooklyn Brew Shop. She and her boyfriend, Stephen, have (bravely) quit their jobs and dedicate themselves to a venture that makes home brewing possible even in the tiniest of New York apartments. They developed nifty little one-gallon kits that help beginners brew 12 bottles of whichever of their recipes strikes your fancy, from Grapefruit Honey Ale to Chocolate Maple Porter (with even more delicious varieties rumored to arrive in the coming weeks). And for those of us looking for a way to buck the economy, there's nothing thriftier than handcrafted beer that only runs about $1.12 per bottle. And if that still sounds scary, they host events that pair their beer with food and walk future home brewers through the process.

Though they sell the kits in person at the Brooklyn Flea, their aesthetically pleasing (and wallet friendly) systems - which include grain, hops and yeast - are also available through their online store, which is great for lazy people like me who don’t want to travel to the outer-boroughs or the non-NYC contingency of our readership. The approachable, nicely designed and sarcastically-written site makes even the weariest of future brewers feel like they can be the next Sam Calagione.

"Brewing your own beer makes you feel like you could go back in time and survive."
Wise wise words from Stephen Valand, co-founder

I don’t know about you, but I see myself writing a post in the near future, while sipping a home brewed porter and relaxing by the fireplace (that I don’t have).

All My Interactions Are Awkward: Technology Edition

This week, I decided to go with a topic that appeals to our mutual interest in technology, propensity toward carrying iPhones and general ability to embarrass ourselves in a variety of situations. Plus this just happened to me last week. And it was pretty damn awkward. Let it be a cautionary tale to all of you.

So, as I’ve been having a variety of interesting issues with my 1st Generation iPhone, one of which includes basically just sitting around and waiting for it to die, I have yet to download the updated FaceBook app. I hope, but don’t know, that this application has a better way to look at the photos of people you haven’t seen in five years. Because, currently, you slide the pictures back and forth with your fingers to browse through an album. Easy and user friendly? Yes. But this also happens to be the same gesture you use to tag and untag photos. At this point, you’re probably starting to see where I’m going with this…

So, I’m lounging around the other day, waiting for Greg to finish a bowl of cereal or do pull-ups or something, and I start futzing on FaceBook to kill time. It was a pretty slow news day, but I stumble across my college roommate’s pictures from a vacation in Italy. I’m a sucker for Italy, so I decide to check out her trip. I don’t make it past the first picture when, in an attempt to slide to the next shot, I end up somehow opening up the feature that lets you tag yourself. It gives you the option to enter in someone’s name, but it also conveniently fills in your own name for you so you can awkwardly tag yourself in other people’s photos with one click. At this point, you’re probably REALLY starting to see where I’m going with this…

Well, I haven’t seen my freshman year roommate since a post-college run in at a Murray Hill bar. She’s was kind of girl who used to accidentally lock herself in closets and perform interpretive dance routines around our room. One time, after she broke up with her boyfriend, I walked in after class to find her sobbing hysterically, slathering lotion on her face and listening to “Desperado” on repeat. Clearly she was always an interesting and funny person. Therefore, I said to myself, besides the beautiful Italian scenery maybe these photos will afford me some entertainment. And I was right. The aforementioned first picture is one of her posing with a mannequin in buttless pantyhose. Some how, in an attempt to close out of the tagging mechanism that I inadvertently opened with a one deft finger tapping maneuver, I manage to actually tag the mannequin’s butt as myself.


So, what do I do?

A) Ignore it and pretend like it never happened
B) Privately message her to explain the situation and hope she’ll think it’s funny
C) Using nothing but a paper clip, a rubber band and a straw, break into her apartment building, guess her laptop password, delete the offending email, reject the tag request and get out of there before anyone is the wiser.

Well, you guessed it folks. I do none of these things. Instead, I write a public comment on the photo. Something along the lines of, “Heh… not sure how I just tagged myself here. Stupid iPhone. But um, Hi and hope all is well!” I figured that this way, I'm drawing optimal attention to my mistake - and not only from ol' roomie, but also from all of her friends, family, former lovers and anyone else who might look at this album.

So I sit, and I wait for her to acknowledge my awkwardness with an “Lol!” or perhaps even a more subdued, “Haha.” But no. Nothing. Silence. In fact, I'm still waiting. Probably because she now thinks I’ve been harboring a major girl crush since 2002 that has lead me to compulsively peruse pictures of her family vacations on FaceBook.

So, kids… what’s the lesson we learned here today? Say it with me now: If you’re going to use FaceBook as a tool to kill time by looking at photos of people you haven’t seen in years and have minimal contact with on a day-to-day basis, at least do it on your laptop.

Close Encounters of an Awkward Kind: Maybe It’s ‘Yogging’ with a Soft J

Every day after work, I enjoy a leisurely, uninterrupted run on the streets of New York. If you’ve ever attempted this yourself, you can probably sense my exaggerated eye-roll through the internet wires. The experience is a gigantic pain in the ass. On a grand scale of NYC-specific pain in the ass moments, it’s higher than delivery boys who don’t obey streetlights but lower than the European tourists who attempt to clothesline you on the sidewalk. Sure you can run in the park or on the river, but really only during daylight hours or you risk being kidnapped by a camp of hobos. (Clearly, the hobos kidnap you because they value your running skills, which increase your chance of making a fast escape after they dispatch you to steal a rival hobo camp’s dinner.) So, due to late hours at work and an intense fear of hobo kidnapping, being confined to the city blocks is a pain in the ass experience I have no choice but to endure.

After my gym tried to get me to sign away my first-born in exchange for treadmill privileges, I decided to give NYC running culture a try. I hadn’t given much thought to the possibility that East Village streets might provide different running challenges than my college campus or the my parent’s quiet neighborhood. In the ‘burbs, the most awkward thing you chance is giving your childhood best friend’s Grandma the finger when she beeps at you because you think she's a skeezy townie checking you out (true story). But running in the city provides endless opportunities for human interaction, which means endless opportunities for awkwardness. My favorite scenarios include, but are not limited to:

The “Shall We Dance”: I often assume that, since I’m moving faster than the she-turtle walking toward me, it’s her responsibility to divert her slow and steady path out of my way. Well, more often than not, Secretary Sally is too focused on the McDonald’s fries she’s milking to give a crap about anyone else on the sidewalk. This means that, before you know it, you’re face to face with old Ketchup tooth, engaging in the little mirror image game of two steps to the left, two steps to the right, pause in the middle, laugh awkwardly and repeat until someone smartens up. Sometimes I attempt to avoid this by taking a hard left straight away. But like a good game of Rock, Paper, Scissor, there’s always a chance that your unsuspecting opponent is going to attempt the exact same move you dreamed up to fake them out. On the sidewalks of New York, two hard lefts often result in a head on collision, or worse, some sort of accidental boob graze.

The “Startle the Tourist”: Years of living in Manhattan have taught me to be suspicious every time I hear footsteps running up behind me. I know it’s a bit neurotic, but I’ve conditioned myself to be very aware of my surroundings. As soon as the pitter-patter catches my ear, I casually move to the side, while discreetly protecting my belongings. There are only so many reasons why someone would be sprinting through the city streets: A) They’re running away from their crack dealer after stiffing them on a payment. B) They’re running away from the police after being caught dealing crack. C) They’re trying to steal your purse and/or worldly possessions, or D) They’re out for some leisurely exercise. The overwhelming probability that it’s not D is why I’m astonished more people don’t get the eff out of my way when they hear me coming. I will literally (and I mean literally in the actual sense of the word not in the teenage girl reverse-exaggeration sense of the word) be twelve inches behind someone before they realize I’m there. Try standing twelve inches behind one of your coworkers. It's really close. Sometimes I’ll shout, “Excuse me!” as I make my way past them (the shouting part is usually unintentional – undoubtedly a result of listening to “Halo” too loudly on my iPod), catalyzing a chain reaction of a startled jump, followed by the dropping of shopping bags and a long, steady stink-eye. Sometimes I apologize. Sometimes I keep running. The one thing that remains constant is my desire to actually steal their purse or at least a small shopping bag. I’d return it later, but would consider it a small contribution to the NYC running culture as that person would probably move out of runners’ ways for the remainder of their lives.

The “Holy Shit Why Is Your Toy Yorkie on a Ten Foot Leash”: Let me preface this by saying that, like so many Manhattan residents, I am a dog lover. This does not mean, however, that I believe dogs should be given free reign of our already crowded sidewalks. It’s hard enough that during a long run, when you have plenty of other obstacles to deal with (like your own imploding chest, for example), you have to be on vigilant look out for abandoned puppy poo. The last thing I want to worry about is crushing some Ugg clad, Louis carrying, cell phone chattering Murray Hill girl’s newly minted Maltese. I know its difficult to listen to Sharon complain about her Friday night at the J-Tree and watch your dog at the same time, but little Muffy just sprinted across the sidewalk creating a trip-wire/hurdle with her Burberry leash. A scraped knee and accidental dog murder would really put a damper on my evening jog.

A gratuitous photo of a tiny dog next to a soup can!

So, to that end, I’d like to propose an NYC Runner’s Bill of Rights – much like the Taxi Rider’s Bill of Rights, but way more selfish and less universally applicable. Considering I just expressed how what starts as a casual jog through the city streets evolves into ruminations of old-lady shoving, souvenir theft and canine homicide, I think that taking this precaution would make the city a safer place. As long as every amendment is some variation of “Get Out of My Way, “ that is.

Can I be a total sap? Just this once? I promise it won’t happen again.

There are some days that life in New York can feel a little bit discouraging. For me, this sensation often comes at the end of the summer, after putting up with one hot, sweaty, humid day after another. With every inhalation you smell rotting garbage and the closest fresh air feels like it’s 200 miles away. There aren’t any beaches or wildlife nearby, besides pigeons and this one bug I found in my room a few weeks ago that looked like it belonged in the Amazon. And to top it off, you have to deal with absolute nutters on every street corner, blathering nonsense or looking for booze money. No, I don’t have 40 cents and no I don’t know where you can find a circus elephant.

But today was a different kind of day for me. Maybe it was the sudden refreshing coolness that made me appreciate the smooth transition from grey pavement to grey building to grey sky. Maybe it was my morning yoga class that left me a little more enlightened and calm than usual. Or maybe it was starting my day by watching our nation’s past and current leaders honoring the life and accomplishments of Ted Kennedy. It gave me hope that that as long as we embrace leaders who learn from their mistakes, make an effort to understand the viewpoints of others – despite ideological differences – and truly believe in the power of their own actions to make the world a better place, that tomorrow and every day after it will be better than today.

“The future will outlast all of us, but I believe that all of us will live on in the future we make.”

At the risk of sounding like a sentimental loser, (you’ll have to excuse me, but as a Massachusett’s girl, political junky and lefty at heart, I’ll miss the Liberal Lion dearly), I’ll leave you, dear readers, with three little experiences I had this morning that made me smile to myself and, perhaps, gave me a tidbit more faith in humanity. Sure, as MLR so kindly pointed out, the leap from Teddy K. to homeless men eating ice cream is a big one. But today I'm seeing the world through rose colored glasses in honor of someone who, like New York, wasn't perfect, but always came through when you needed him to.

A homeless man eating a pint of Ben and Jerry’s like it was truly the most glorious moment of his life. Sure, maybe he was stoned off his ass or something, but I like to think that he was finding joy in Phish Food instead of vodka and heroin.

Three surly-looking hipsters sitting around talking about how they were moving to the suburbs to give their children better lives instead of staying in the city, which is what they’d prefer to do for themselves. And here I thought they were going to be talking about each other's plaid shirts and keffiyehs.

A morning conversation between two older women at the neighborhood specialty store about the beauty of supporting local, family run businesses – even if they charge us an extra dollar for milk in the middle of a terrible recession.

A random man walking by stopping to help a delivery boy right an entire rack of bicycles he had knocked over moments earlier, despite the fact delivery boys probably have the worst karma ever as a result of purposefully trying to run over pedestrians on a daily basis.

Even though for every good thing we witness, there are probably 10 men out there trying to peek up the skirt of a girl sitting in the window seat at Starbucks, some days maybe its just important to let these things roll off your back and to actively look for what you want to see – and for me today, that was hope.

Close Encounters of an Awkward Kind: Oh the People You See.

As the post college years drag on, I’m sure I’m not the only one who finds myself developing a bit of a routine. This is especially true in the mornings, where I have perfected the art of getting to work at exactly the last possible minute I feel comfortable showing up. Every morning I leave my house around 9:20, walk the 16 downtown blocks and 3 crosstown blocks that separate my apartment and my office. Every other day I stop at the same Starbucks for a venti iced coffee with milk. Usually I walk on the east side of the street to stay in the shade. Basically, I have my commute down to a science. And this also involves seeing the exact same people every single morning, entrenched in their own daily routine.

Having an overactive imagination, I like to pretend like I know about these people’s lives, and I entertain myself during my boring, tedious walks to work by making up little nicknames and back stories for them. First, there’s Ambiguously Gay Mr. Fix It. He sits outside his apartment with his dog all morning, pretending to read a book or futz with his motorcycle while secretly people watching. Part of me likes to think he’s in a band and that’s why he’s never at work during the day.

Then there’s my personal favorite, Dad with Cute Asian Daughter. I often pass him in the 20’s, depending on whether I delay my departure by putting a little more TLC than usual into my lunch or sitting around for an extra ten minutes to watch an especially interesting NY1 segment on bus schedules. I like to imagine that he’s taking his daughter to preschool while her mom, a busy lawyer, is bringing home the bacon and providing a strong female role model for her young, adorable daughter. There’s also Wannabe LeBron, Fashionable Wheelchair Girl, Omnipresent Homeless Guy (seriously, he's everywhere) and Overly Nice Doorman, among others.

The real problem occurs when I see these people so often that I begin to think we’re friends. It’s that dangerous moment when the lines between reality and fantasy become blurred and I say hi and smile at little Sally when I see her and Dad in line at the grocery store on a Wednesday night. This out-of-context gesture at best elicits a blank stare, and at worst a look that says, “Stop talking to my baby you creep.” This is because in the world that exists outside my brain, I don’t actually know these people and they don’t know me. I knew I had to draw the line today when, on my morning walk, I didn’t see DWCAD and got a little worried. I found myself speculating about what could have happened to them. Maybe Mom was sick with swine flu. Or they were on vacation in Bermuda. And then I realized, life is too short to waste time worrying about imaginary friends.

Close Encounters of an Awkward Kind: The Double Goodbye

Sad? Yes. But at least she knows they're not coming
back because they forgot their iPods.

There is one move, above all others, that belongs in the awkward hall of fame. Like the Joey Chestnut of awkward contests, it would win first place every year if such a thing existed. It can make even the most composed, pulled together person a stumbling mess. This move is the double goodbye.

There is truly nothing worse, and I challenge any of you to think of something more uncomfortable (comment bait!!). I find that I most often experience the double goodbye at the end of the workday. And it usually goes a little something like this:

I hop onto the elevator with a coworker. From here, as it proceeds to stop on EVERY SINGLE FLOOR, I feel compelled to make a terrible Kenneth-the-Page-esque joke in which I ask if we’re on “the local train.” (Cue forced laugh.) Ding! I finally arrive at the first floor, after what seems like the full duration of the Paleolithic Era. From the elevator to the exit, there is just enough time to wrap up with some quick small talk. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Me: Doing anything good tonight?

Girl who works down the hall whose name I don’t even know: Oh, just going to a concert in Brooklyn.

Me: Great! Well, have a good weekend!

GWWDTHWNIDEK: You too!

Me: Thanks. See you Monday.

And this is where things get really bad. Because I'm going to see this person before Monday. In fact, I'm going to see her before the next 10 seconds are up. My palms start to sweat as I realize she's walking in the same direction. She's about three feet behind me and part of me wants to act like I don’t even notice she's there. But I do. Eventually she catches up. And then I have to pretend to be interested in whatever hipster band she's planning to drink PBR to and discuss ironic facial hair over later that night.

A little piece of me dies inside when I realize we could be walking in the same direction for several blocks. I feebly ask where she's going in an attempt to make a quick exit from the stilted conversation, but then I panic when she says, “Oh, just to the subway,” and I realize that we're in Union Square and there’s a subway on every block for a half-mile radius. So I try to stay calm and gauge when it’s coming: The dreaded double goodbye. Do I make a joke about it and risk it going over her head? Do I try to play it cool? Or do I pretend like I have to duck into a store just so I can cut the conversation short and escape?

Or, worst of all, do I have this experience several times, stress over it, write a blog post about it and in the process realize that George Costanza and I are the only two people on the face of the earth who would ever spend so much time thinking about something so ridiculous?

The answer is a combination of all of the above. Toss in a do-we-or-don't-we hug moment, a slight voice crack and a mental image of me tripping over a subway grate while scurrying away and stuttering, "By-- Bye again." And there you have it my friends: a standard issue double goodbye.

All My Friends Are WASPs

I think that because my Dad is a politician and has really, really good Kennedy hair (seriously though, it’s so good), people assume we are WASPs. Real, Luther-loving, transubstantiation-hating, White Anglo Saxon Protestants. Well these people are wrong. And not only that, they clearly know nothing about history, or follicles. First off, the Kennedy’s are Catholic and so are we. Secondly, schwoopy blonde hair does not a Protestant make. But WASPiness is not just about religion, these days. It's become a lifestyle. I mean, if I were a real WASP, would I have dropped out of sailing lessons in 8th grade? No. Would I be so intimidated by an email I received this morning telling me not to forget my “tennis whites” for an upcoming weekend in Rhode Island? No, I wouldn’t. In my mind I’d locate my best polo and skort combo instead of frantically scanning my wardrobe for an appropriate ensemble. In doing so, all I come back with are men’s Hanes tee-shirts, reversible hand-me-up Nike shorts and sneakers with dark court-scuffing soles. So what’s a non-WASP to do in such hard times?

Well, I decided to take a cue from all my compatriots over at Conn Coll, where even the Jews are WASPs. My first step was to take a deep breath and not show any outward emotion. Sure I was stressing over tennis whites, but a good WASP never betrays her inner turmoil. She dons her pearls and puts her best foot forward, possibly with the help of a couple gimlets. After much calm reflection on my Lacoste-free existence, I realized that I was going to be just fine. Tennis whites are no obstacle to something I was born with, something that confused my Italian tutors to no end, but could never, ever fail me in the face of an impending WASPy weekend.

An androgynous, ambiguous name: Makena.

If there’s anything I learned in college, it’s that the most obvious WASP identifier is a first name that sounds like a last name (Tucker, Forbes, Carter, Mackenzie, Finley). Bonus points if you’re a girl with a boy’s name (Colby, Logan, Brooks) or a boy with a girl’s name (Leslie, Kelly, Shannon). Triple bonus points if you go by your middle name. And a gold star if you people call you something like Bitsy, Kitty, Chip, Skip, Trip, Biff, Ace or a colloquial permutation of the numbers that follow your given name. So here I am, with a gift bestowed upon me by my unsuspecting parents. A name that, in truth, is Hawaiian, but to your average, unsuspecting, possibly drunk WASP acquaintance? Pure gold.

I mean, what’s the use of suffering through years of recruitment letters from B.C. High and St. John’s Prep if I can’t at least use my boyish sounding name to my advantage around similarly-monikered friends. Why correct people when they assume I was named for my mother’s family (who in reality, are so Italian they put that fat kid Anthony from the Barilla pasta commercials to shame)? If they hear my name and automatically assume I’m good at squash and know what a boom vang is, who am I correct them?

But why all the masquerading? I’m mostly just in it for the big lobster I was promised if I survive the weekend. Apparently, shellfish is like currency for these people.

Things That Perplex Me: Facebook

I have very few claims to fame. Now that joining the ranks of AMDAL bloggers can be added to the list, I think the grand total is four. These stunning accomplishments include my current undefeated status in pong (just don’t ask how many times I’ve played if you want to remain impressed), a record for the world’s longest awkward stage (no seriously – it started when I was eight and I’m pretty sure it’s still going on), and perhaps most importantly, that Mark Zuckerberg’s girlfriend was my high school lab partner. Yes, THE Mark Zuckerberg – Harvard drop-out and founder of Facebook. This, combined with the fact that my good friend Goldy works in the FB customer service department are two reasons why I’m endlessly able to justify the inordinate amount of time I spend cruising around this social networking wasteland.

I’ve never really questioned my motives – I’ve just been doing what any good former lab partner would do. By keeping Facebook alive and well, I’m continuing to ensure that my friend can fly around the world to lavish vacation spots, attend the White House Correspondents' Dinner despite no apparent involvement in politics or correspondence of any sort and generally live the good life until whenever the next dotcom bubble bursts. But today, an email from a friend’s mother forced me to reevaluate the role FB plays in my life and in the world at large. She wanted to apologize for friending me because she felt that, as an older adult, she didn’t fit into my Facebook world and was intruding on whatever community I had built for myself there.

But Facebook is no longer the voyeuristic place it used to be when we were in college – a way to anonymously stalk quasi-acquaintances or piece together hazy weekends. It ceased to be the virtual tabloid I knew and loved. (I imagine that when one friend found out his lady was cheating on him via the background of pictures posted after a particularly rowdy party, he felt the same way Jennifer Anniston did when she saw those first shots of Brad and Ang together in Malawi.) People started to catch on that when your photos and thoughts became public property, so did your shame and embarrassment.

But then things shifted. Just yesterday my coworker was telling me how she joined FB for the sole purpose of checking out this guy she has a crush on, but much to her chagrin, his page was private. Following the preliminary period of over-sharing came a backlash wave of überprivacy. After my sister had one particularly nasty Facebook-fueled run in with a ruthless Boston newspaper (cough cough Herald), she made it so you couldn’t even find her profile. It was the online version of, “Don’t call me. I’ll call you…”

So now, for me at least, Facebook has evolved into a marketing tool that I try to sell in to clients, a platform for polite sharing of photography from trips with the familia de Sweens, a way to stay current with a prodigious number of engagement announcements (don’t even get me started) and a one-stop shop for the contact information of anyone I’ve ever known since pre-school. All of my meaningful engagement with friends happens in real life, not on walls or by sending virtual gifts. And this makes me wonder if Facebook has finally ceased to be useful to me, and almost as importantly, if it’s stopped being fun. I can host photos on Flikr and talk to my friends on the phone. And wouldn’t my life be a little bit better without the sadness I feel when I realize I’m looking through someone’s photo album who I don’t even know?

I’m not sure I’m ready to take the “unsubscribe” plunge quite yet, but if I were Mark Zuckerberg, I’d think about cutting back on that next trip to the Maldives.

Up in next week's installment of Things That Perplex Me: Why do random German men keep following me on Twitter?