Ruminations on our strange world

I recently had a relative pass away.  This, by itself, was not such a strange thing– it happens all the time.  We weren’t particularly close, and she lived far enough away that I only had the privilege of meeting her on a handful of family occasions.  Birthdays for the old folks, bar-mitzvahs for the young, anniversaries, weddings, &c.

The strange thing was, upon signing into Facebook this evening, under the ‘Suggestions’ panel, was her photograph, and a recommendation to ‘Make her Facebook experience better.’

It took my breath away.

Things got weirder as I clicked through.  There was a photograph of the woman that I remembered, which was to be expected (what mourning husband or child even thinks to take these things down?), but, though she died nearly a year ago, I was bewildered to see wall postings from as recently as this past Thursday.  Other distant relatives told her how much they missed her, as if they were speaking directly to her.  Her daughter had posted her summer plans.  It was almost as if they were leaving flowers on  her grave.  Or praying.

This got me thinking: given the ubiquity of social networking sites, how many of these virtual graves are out there?  A brief Google scrape brought up an interesting article by the Consumerist on Facebook’s policy for the deceased, a few Facebook applications to “help you connect with the recently deceased,” and an extremely telling CNET article on Facebook allowing for memorials to be set up for the dead.

Social networking sites have become our generation’s roadside memorials, the public spaces we place our flowers when we’re unable to visit our departed kin and ken.  It’s an interesting thing to contemplate, in an era of cemeteries like Hollywood Forever.  If cemeteries’ purpose is to leave a tangible monument to the deceased, what form will their immortalization take in the future?

The Smackings of Spring in Boston

It was windy today along the Charles. It was also wonderfully warm– the first day I’ve lived in this fair city where the temperature exceeded 50 degrees. It was almost too much to bear. After popping out of bed and flinging my windows open, I threw on a shirt and some jeans and charged out the door into the morning. (It’s amazing how quickly the body acclimates to a climate. Fifty-eight degrees with 5mph winds in Seattle, and I’m reaching for my jacket. Here, I was wishing I’d remembered to bring shorts.)
The walk down Mass. Ave. was a whirl of contradictory stimuli: the sun beat down on the cigarettes embedded in the soot-covered snow lining the sidewalks; a small armada of sailboats raced in circles on the completely unswimmable river; beautiful girls strolled impassively down the street as middle-aged men hollered at them from their cars, blaring the new U2 album through the windows.
In the face of all this, I walked the entire day through, wending my way down from Cambridge, through the Back Bay and into China Town, taking in the architecture and touristas through half-lidded eyes, a lazy smile plastered to my face. I looked like I was stoned; I felt like I’d just gotten laid.
I’ve got a hell of a lot more to say about this city, Seattle’s creepy uncle, but there are only a few hours of daylight left, so I’ll leave it there.

Happy Jew Year!

As you may or may not already know, it’s the Jewish new year, and we’re currently in the throes of the high holidays.  Now, not believing in anything much, as far as non-secular things go, I often find myself hard-pressed to figure out what these holidays mean in the cultural (and not in any way religious) sense.  At the very least, it makes for a good excuse to weasel my way out of work.  At best, it’s a fantastic excuse to really turn around and examine my life in some fundamental way.  It was in that very Socratic spirit that my new Jewmate and I decided that it was time to leave behind our old, traditional methods of atoning for our various wrongdoings– that is to say, merely talking about them with our family members and loved ones– and attempt another approach.  We articulated our needs, came up with some goals, and finally arrived at a plan:

We would drunk-dial our wrongdoings.

Of course, being in the same room as someone for so abasing a mission of self-absolution is impossible.  Instead, we chose our respective atonees, crossed pinkies, and fled for opposite sides of the house.  The rules dictated that we were through when we had achieved one of three possible outcomes:

1) We had, through the strength of our convictions and the power of this gesture, managed to mollify the person on the other end of the line.  This is characterized by the “Aww” response.
2) We had, through the strength and apparentness of our self-loathing, managed to placate the person on the other end of the line. This is characterized by the “Yech” response.
3) We had, in the process of repentance, debased ourselves so badly that the injustice committed would forever stain our soul.  This is, of course, characterized by the “fuck off and die” response, and were, of course, the subjects of the most shared glee.

If you were overlooked in this process, or called you too early on in the evening for the “good stuff,” please don’t hesitate to get loaded, grab someone you’ve only just met, and call me up to make amends.

The Splooges.

Sitting here, in a standard Seattle bar, the DJ spinning the Stooges while PIL blares from the jukebox nobody bothered to turn off (the general hubub is drowning most of it out anyhow), I’m thinking: I’m going to be touching down in Tokyo a mere X hours from now.  Other thoughts include, “damn am I hungry,” and “damn has she got a nice can,” but really, I’m just looking forward to seeing my brother, and stomping around a different continent for a couple of weeks.

Wish me luck, lovelies!