| General Fiction posted March 26, 2020 |
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Virtual visiting via cloud sourcing
Nice to Meet You - Or Not
by Elizabeth Emerald
Once upon a time, telephone, paper, and pen were the social media. Sustained in the interim by phone conversation, supplemented by occasional written correspondence, friendship was conducted person-to-person. In person. Friendship back then required an investment of time, a commitment of attention. There was a limit to how many pieces you could make of your personal pie. Two or three generous slabs for your most favored, modest slices for several more, slivers for the rest. Subdivide any further, you’d be serving up crumbs.
With today’s array of social media we have more friends than ever before. After all, it’s so much easier to get together—anytime!—in the virtual world. My friends become your friends and bring more friends. Communication is effortless, instantaneous. Tweet, tweet. Your words out-fly the fastest bird. No need to speak—simply text. That’s what phones are for!
By “phone” I mean “cell,” silly. It’s redundant to say cell phone. As if anyone has a landline anymore. Don’t you know how rude it is to call someone’s cell? To interrupt his texting, or oblige him to listen to a rambling message. Which he won’t do. Guaranteed. I’ve made the mistake of leaving voice mail in which concision got bested by the painstaking detail needed to avoid a to-and-fro-times-two fest. Invariably, I get a curt call back: Yeah, I see you called—what’s up?
All my friends are on FaceBook. I’m not, but they are. All four of them. All four of whom have, much to their credit and inconvenience, managed to meet me on my terms. As in meet me, literally, at my house, say, for lunch. With pie, perhaps, for dessert. The rest of the time my four friends meet their considerably overlapping circles of four hundred FaceBook friends (FBFs). Up in the Cloud. Where the pie-in-the-sky is in good supply. Never at risk of running dry.
Though the pie itself is, to my taste, dry. Indeed, virtual-ly tasteless, as online pies tend to be. But, hey, don’t listen to me. Everyone on FaceBook LIKEs all their 400 friends’ pies. At least they say they LIKE them. They’d better, if they don’t want to be left friendless.
One of my friends, Ellen, unfriended one of her FBFs because he didn’t LIKE her daily serving of pie. Not that he UNLIKED it. Joe merely didn’t partake of her pie one day…another day... An entire week! She was hurt because she tracked Joe’s pie consumption and found he was praising others’ pies to the skies during all that time he took nary a nibble of hers.
So, now Ellen’s erstwhile FBF is down a friend. Though it likely escaped his notice, considering Joe’s probably since acquired 40-something others in her place. So Ellen didn’t even get the satisfaction of seeing Joe stung by her snub. Moreover, having been the initiator of the unfriending , Ellen’s well aware of the dip in her own friend count.
On the upside, I am pleased to see that my son-the-socialist, 36-and-still-single (by neither his choice nor mine), is a hit with his female FBFs. Indeed, as a frequently-published writer (including a book and another pending), he’s acquired a small fan club of socialist sympathizers.
Last week one of Doug’s admirers sent him a postcard. A literal card, with an actual stamp, delivered by a real mailman. The salutation was Dearest Doug, and the signoff was Love with a heart-topper. The lady gushed: Absolutely loved your book, looking forward to the second…So delighted we met, hope to get to know you better soon...
Well! The virtual has turned real. This lady may have begun as an FBF, but they’ve actually met. She clearly adores him. I hope she lives nearby so they can get together often. We could invite her to dinner for starters, make her feel welcome. Not that I’m trying to rush things, no, not at all, but…for Chrissake Doug, I’ll take a pass on the grandkids, but please, please get married and move out already, my God, your hair’s nearly as grey as mine would be if I didn’t dye it.
I approached my son, trying to make my inquiry appear casual. So Doug, where’s your friend from?... OHIO?(Damn!) ...When were you in Ohio?...You weren’t? Then where did you meet?...On FaceBook?... Yes, but I mean where when you met in person?...You never met in person? …Well, any chance she might make a trip to see you?...Oh, I see, that’s too bad.(Double Damn!)
I haven’t lost all hope. Seems the lady can’t manage the trip on her own, but her grandson lives near the nursing home. In May he’s going to escort her east to visit her other grandson. Who—can you believe!—lives, with his wife and three kids, right here in Melrose!
***********************************************************************************************
News Flash: In the Flesh!
File this under Truth is Stranger Than Fiction. Four months ago, I wrote the piece above bemoaning the FaceBook culture with its punchline starring my son, intellectual spawn of Karl Marx. As I said, by virtue of his numerous publications and public speaking engagements, Doug has accrued considerable cachet on the socialist scene worldwide (suffixed Web). Doug has dozens of fawning followers (virtually speaking) who are just thrilled to meet him (online, that is).
You'll recall that in the anecdote I describe my excitement upon finding a postcard to Doug from a fan, a woman from Ohio. I envisioned a lovely lady sweeping my son off his feet and out of my house. This much was true—meaning, this was, in fact, my fantasy (especially, part two: house-sweeping). I topped off my tale with a fictional twist: the lady would soon be seeing Doug, given she had already planned a trip to Melrose—what a coincidence!—to visit her grandson and his family.
I don’t know how to calculate the odds that a random resident of Ohio would have relatives in Melrose. I have no reason to think that this real-life lady, Sharon, has. I do have reason to think that whatever and wherever her family, great-grandchildren are not among them. Nor grandchildren; Sharon is a mere year—and two days—older than Doug. Sharon does, however, have friends in this area, whom she visited last Saturday, enroute to meeting up with Doug.
After months of intense FaceBook friending, Sharon and Doug had grown “close,” so to speak. How would the virtual translate to the real? Awkwardly, at best, one would think.
And one would, in this case, be quite wrong. Doug and Sharon segued seamlessly from one world to the next. Their meet-and-greet marked the magical start of real lives entwined. Now—you tell me!—what are the odds against that!
Oh, how sweet the sound of feet-sweeping. How I long to hear the—far sweeter—sound of house-sweeping. Hush! Could it be…please!...Ohio calling!
Once upon a time, telephone, paper, and pen were the social media. Sustained in the interim by phone conversation, supplemented by occasional written correspondence, friendship was conducted person-to-person. In person. Friendship back then required an investment of time, a commitment of attention. There was a limit to how many pieces you could make of your personal pie. Two or three generous slabs for your most favored, modest slices for several more, slivers for the rest. Subdivide any further, you’d be serving up crumbs.
With today’s array of social media we have more friends than ever before. After all, it’s so much easier to get together—anytime!—in the virtual world. My friends become your friends and bring more friends. Communication is effortless, instantaneous. Tweet, tweet. Your words out-fly the fastest bird. No need to speak—simply text. That’s what phones are for!
By “phone” I mean “cell,” silly. It’s redundant to say cell phone. As if anyone has a landline anymore. Don’t you know how rude it is to call someone’s cell? To interrupt his texting, or oblige him to listen to a rambling message. Which he won’t do. Guaranteed. I’ve made the mistake of leaving voice mail in which concision got bested by the painstaking detail needed to avoid a to-and-fro-times-two fest. Invariably, I get a curt call back: Yeah, I see you called—what’s up?
All my friends are on FaceBook. I’m not, but they are. All four of them. All four of whom have, much to their credit and inconvenience, managed to meet me on my terms. As in meet me, literally, at my house, say, for lunch. With pie, perhaps, for dessert. The rest of the time my four friends meet their considerably overlapping circles of four hundred FaceBook friends (FBFs). Up in the Cloud. Where the pie-in-the-sky is in good supply. Never at risk of running dry.
Though the pie itself is, to my taste, dry. Indeed, virtual-ly tasteless, as online pies tend to be. But, hey, don’t listen to me. Everyone on FaceBook LIKEs all their 400 friends’ pies. At least they say they LIKE them. They’d better, if they don’t want to be left friendless.
One of my friends, Ellen, unfriended one of her FBFs because he didn’t LIKE her daily serving of pie. Not that he UNLIKED it. Joe merely didn’t partake of her pie one day…another day... An entire week! She was hurt because she tracked Joe’s pie consumption and found he was praising others’ pies to the skies during all that time he took nary a nibble of hers.
So, now Ellen’s erstwhile FBF is down a friend. Though it likely escaped his notice, considering Joe’s probably since acquired 40-something others in her place. So Ellen didn’t even get the satisfaction of seeing Joe stung by her snub. Moreover, having been the initiator of the unfriending , Ellen’s well aware of the dip in her own friend count.
On the upside, I am pleased to see that my son-the-socialist, 36-and-still-single (by neither his choice nor mine), is a hit with his female FBFs. Indeed, as a frequently-published writer (including a book and another pending), he’s acquired a small fan club of socialist sympathizers.
Last week one of Doug’s admirers sent him a postcard. A literal card, with an actual stamp, delivered by a real mailman. The salutation was Dearest Doug, and the signoff was Love with a heart-topper. The lady gushed: Absolutely loved your book, looking forward to the second…So delighted we met, hope to get to know you better soon...
Well! The virtual has turned real. This lady may have begun as an FBF, but they’ve actually met. She clearly adores him. I hope she lives nearby so they can get together often. We could invite her to dinner for starters, make her feel welcome. Not that I’m trying to rush things, no, not at all, but…for Chrissake Doug, I’ll take a pass on the grandkids, but please, please get married and move out already, my God, your hair’s nearly as grey as mine would be if I didn’t dye it.
I approached my son, trying to make my inquiry appear casual. So Doug, where’s your friend from?... OHIO?(Damn!) ...When were you in Ohio?...You weren’t? Then where did you meet?...On FaceBook?... Yes, but I mean where when you met in person?...You never met in person? …Well, any chance she might make a trip to see you?...Oh, I see, that’s too bad.(Double Damn!)
I haven’t lost all hope. Seems the lady can’t manage the trip on her own, but her grandson lives near the nursing home. In May he’s going to escort her east to visit her other grandson. Who—can you believe!—lives, with his wife and three kids, right here in Melrose!
***********************************************************************************************
News Flash: In the Flesh!
File this under Truth is Stranger Than Fiction. Four months ago, I wrote the piece above bemoaning the FaceBook culture with its punchline starring my son, intellectual spawn of Karl Marx. As I said, by virtue of his numerous publications and public speaking engagements, Doug has accrued considerable cachet on the socialist scene worldwide (suffixed Web). Doug has dozens of fawning followers (virtually speaking) who are just thrilled to meet him (online, that is).
You'll recall that in the anecdote I describe my excitement upon finding a postcard to Doug from a fan, a woman from Ohio. I envisioned a lovely lady sweeping my son off his feet and out of my house. This much was true—meaning, this was, in fact, my fantasy (especially, part two: house-sweeping). I topped off my tale with a fictional twist: the lady would soon be seeing Doug, given she had already planned a trip to Melrose—what a coincidence!—to visit her grandson and his family.
I don’t know how to calculate the odds that a random resident of Ohio would have relatives in Melrose. I have no reason to think that this real-life lady, Sharon, has. I do have reason to think that whatever and wherever her family, great-grandchildren are not among them. Nor grandchildren; Sharon is a mere year—and two days—older than Doug. Sharon does, however, have friends in this area, whom she visited last Saturday, enroute to meeting up with Doug.
After months of intense FaceBook friending, Sharon and Doug had grown “close,” so to speak. How would the virtual translate to the real? Awkwardly, at best, one would think.
And one would, in this case, be quite wrong. Doug and Sharon segued seamlessly from one world to the next. Their meet-and-greet marked the magical start of real lives entwined. Now—you tell me!—what are the odds against that!
Oh, how sweet the sound of feet-sweeping. How I long to hear the—far sweeter—sound of house-sweeping. Hush! Could it be…please!...Ohio calling!
 Recognized |
Artwork by MoonWillow at FanArtReview.com
© Copyright 2024. Elizabeth Emerald All rights reserved.
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