Pangaea

Reference Question of the Day

Student: Do you have any maps of the world from 3,000 - 4,000 years ago?
Me: Um, yeah, we have some historical atlases.

[I show her some maps of Europe, North Africa, and the world from 1,000 BC.]

Student: No, I mean, like, when all the land was together.
Me: Oh, you mean Pangaea. When there was only one continent, before they all split apart?
Student: Yeah.
Me: That's called Pangaea and it's millions of years old. You won't find that on a world map from this time period.
Student: But I don't believe the Earth is older than 10,000 years.

Then you don't believe in Pangaea!

B3DOP

I remember an episode of The New Twilight Zone that I saw over 20 years ago where this man begins to notice that people around him are using the wrong words for things. For example, a colleague asks if he wants to go get some dinosaur, and he responds, "Dinosaur? Don't you mean lunch?" As the episode progresses, he gets more and more confused by the words people are using. It's not gibberish the people are speaking, they're using English words, but the words take on completely different meanings. The episode ends with him sitting down with his son's picture book to relearn the meanings of so many basic words.

That's a little what it's been like for me since I've started learning the Cyrillic alphabet. Many of the symbols look like things from our Latin alphabet, but they make completely different sounds. So when I'm reading Cyrillic, I have to re-train myself that H makes the "N" sound, P makes the "R" sound, and B makes the "V" sound. And it's not like the H, P, and B sounds don't exist in Cyrillic, they're just represented by X, a table-lookin' thing, and a symbol that looks like a lower-case b with a flag on it, respectively.

I'm learning Cyrillic because I'm trying to learn Russian, and I'm learning Russian because, well, because of a girl. My new girlfriend is a native speaker of Russian, and since I'm all about linguistics and languages and learning new things, I thought this would be a great opportunity to take on this challenge. Every few years I get engrossed in a new hobby or project that bores and annoys those around me, whether it's German or poker or beer or tennis or blogging. So my latest such project is learning Russian/Cyrillic.

Cyrillic was invented, sorta, by two Byzantine monk/brothers named Cyril and Methodius. (Dude, I am totally naming my next cat Methodius.) They used a mishmash of symbols and sounds from Greek, Hebrew, and Latin, which is why there's just enough resemblance to my own alphabet to fuck me up.

There are 33 characters in the Russian Cyrillic alphabet. About five of them (A, K, M, O, T) share the same sound as their Latin counterparts. Six others (B, E, H, P, C, Y) look like Latin letters, but have different sounds. Some resemble Latin letters that have been written by a Kindergartner or a stroke patient: A backwards 'R', a backwards 'N' or a rounded backwards 'E'. The symbol for the number three (3) also makes an appearance, as the 'z' sound.Other symbols allow various levels of comparison with our alphabet. There's a squarish 'U' with a tail, two squarish 'W's (one with a tail, one without), an upside-down lower-case 'h', and an 'I' joined to an 'O' with a horizontal line that makes them look like Siamese twins. And then there are the symbols that don't resemble anything in our alphabet: a Space Invaders spaceship, a table, an 'O' with a vertical line through it, a double-sided K that's often described as a bug.

As if this isn't confusing enough, the written script differs from the printed one. The letter for the 'D' sound, for example, looks like a Space Invaders spaceship in printed form. The handwritten script looks like a capital 'D,' but the lowercase is written like a 'g'. The 'G' sound, meanwhile, is represented by a sorta r-lookin' symbol, but in handwritten script looks like a T (capital) or a backwards s (lowercase.)
If you write out the name Rita in Russian, it looks like Puma. But if it's printed in a book, it looks like: P[backwards N]TA.

It may sound like I'm complaining, but I love the challenge. There's a real sense of power in uncovering the meaning behind these symbols, like getting my Lone Ranger decoder ring to figure out the secret message on the back of a cereal box. What once was gobbledegooky gibberish actually has meaning to me now. It's been over thirty years since I learned the alphabet, and now I once again get to experience that sense of discovery, frustration, and accomplishment as I slowly sound out a word on the page. I'm learning to read and write all over again.

I'm usually pretty good at guessing the right consonant symbols, but the vowels drive me nuts. There are eleven vowels in Cyrillic, and Russian has the impudence (like English) to pronounce the same vowel in different ways depending on the word (or even placement within the word.) The O is constantly (but not always) being pronounced like an "ah." So that pivo is pronounced 'piva,' for example. (Or rather, 'piva' is written pivo. It's a chicken-and-egg question.) One of the most common vowels in Russian is a sound that doesn't exist in English, and it's a bitch to pronounce. I always have to scrunch up my face and repeat it like six times before I get it right. (If I get it right.)

Every day I pick a new word to try to write out in Cyrillic. The first word I wrote was "vodka." That's been followed by the Russian words for "thank you", "nonsense", "beer", "chocolate," "tennis", "kiss me", "please", and "repeat." (This has lead to my first Russian conversation with Margaret: Kiss me. Thank you. Please repeat.) I've found myself sitting in meetings and trying to figure out how to transcribe English words on my handout into Cyrillic.

I've checked out a bunch of books and CDs from the library. Some are more helpful than others. Some books, like Russian for Dummies, turn me off by saying things like, "We're not going to teach you a lot of boring grammar rules." Boring grammar rules!? But that's the best part!!

The title I've selected for his blog entry (B3DOP) is my attempt to represent a Cyrillic word in Latin script. Except for the 'D', all the letters look close enough to resemble a Russian word. The word is pronounced vzdor, and it means "nonsense." But I'm slowly starting to makes sense out of it.

Capitalist Paintbrush

On my commute to work this morning I saw it again. The Sherwin Williams truck. It always gets my dander up. It features the disgusting image of a can of paint turned upside down covering the entire planet, with the slogan "Cover The Earth."

Short of using racial or minority epithets, I can't think of a more offensive way to advertise your product.

"Hey," it says, "We're Sherwin Williams Paint, and we want to cover the entire world with our product! Wouldn't that be awesome?!"

No, it wouldn't. Seriously, what's more depressing than the prospect of the entire world covered in paint? Trees, rocks, flowers, beaches, mountains, pizza, mushrooms, kittens, your mother-- let's paint it all!!

Just who exactly is this logo for? I could totally see executives of the company sitting in their underground lair and getting off on the image of the entire world covered in their paint. It will all be ours! Bwahahahahaaaaa!! But is that the message you want to convey to the general public? Maybe you want to keep your goal of world domination under your hat there, fellas.

Because of their stupid, extremely offensive logo, I will never, ever buy SWP. The good thing about capitalism (when it works, anyway) is that I can vote with my wallet. If a company pisses me off, I will never give them any of my business, if I can help it.

I had to add that disclaimer, if I can help it, because capitalism does have a fundamental flaw.

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I love capitalism. It's not perfect, but it's the best, most realistic economic system that we've been able to implement so far. The thing that makes it great is that it's driven by competition. (Something about "harnessing greed" too.) I do think that competition is one of the best human motivators. Without it, people get complacent and lazy. The best companies survive because they are good at what they do (for the most part.)

But ultimately, each company's goal is to eliminate the competition. That's where capitalism's huge flaw comes in. If left to their own devices, every company that gains an advantage would grow so big as to squeeze out all the competition. No competition = no more capitalism. If left unchecked, capitalism would eat itself.

People love to think of corporations as evil. I do it myself. But corporations are neither good nor evil. They're just entities that exist to make money. Calling a corporation evil because it tries to maximize profits or eliminate the competition is like calling an owl evil because it eats cute little marmosets.

The only way we can prevent the marmoset from getting eaten is to contain the owl. It's the same way with companies. We need government regulations in place to contain them, to make sure they don't eat all the cute marmosets or poop on our homes. (This applies to both owls and corporations.)

I'm no economist, so I'm mostly talking out of my ass here. I like to throw around words like competition and regulation and monopoly and marmoset, but I don't have all the answers. I know that Sherwin Williams isn't unique in their wet dream to cover the world in their sticky colorful paint. (Are we really talking about paint here?) I'm sure the folks at McDonald's have a similar dream that one day their food will be the only thing that feeds the world. I'm sure Wal-Mart has a dream of being the only shopping option for thousands of small towns. (Oops, I guess that one came true.)

But SWP does have the audacity to put a truly tasteless idea on all their goddam trucks. And for that, I will exercise my capitalist option to avoid their product. At least until they get their paint all over my marmoset-skin wallet.

Judging

My college has a "livestock judging team" that travels around the country competing in...well, I guess you'd call them competitions. They compete with kids from other schools to see how well they can judge the livestock. And then they're judged for it. And there are winners and losers-- students who are good at judging livestock and those who aren't so good at it.

If not for the livestock aspect, I think I'd do pretty well at a judging competition. I'm very competitive and I love judging things: People, situations, inanimate objects, the weather. I'm all about judging.

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One of my hobbies is reading advice columns. (I recently put links to some of my favorites on this here blog.) I like to read about people's problems and judge them for it.

But it's not just about judging. I also like to ask myself what I would do in a given dilemma, or if it's the kind of situation I could ever imagine myself in. This helps me to define my own values. I've realized, for example, that I'm very rule-oriented and favor keeping your promises. So in most disputes I side with the person who kept a previously agreed-upon commitment (unless the extenuating circumstances are extreme.)

For an open-minded liberal, I can get pretty judgmental. I believe in the motto, "Live and Let Live," and would never want to step on other people's rights to live as they want-- as long as they're not directly hurting other people-- but that doesn't mean I can't judge some things as stupid, annoying, or icky.

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Which brings me to the latest installment of my Half-Read Book Reviews. (See here and here for earlier reviews.) Right now I'm in the middle of One Big Happy Family: 18 Writers Talk About Polyamory, Open Adoption, Mixed Marriage, Househusbandry, Single Motherhood, and Other Realities of Truly Modern Love.

The title pretty much says it all. I like the idea that there's lots of different ways to make up a family, I'm just not that crazy about all the examples in the book. Sometimes I think I'm much more amenable to "alternative" lifestyles in theory than I am in practice.

For example, I have nothing against the idea of polyamory or open marriage if it's truly what everyone involved wants. Hey, what could be hotter than happy swingers!? But the essay about it in this book, "And Then We Were Poly" by Jenny Block, doesn't really paint an appealing picture. She wanted-- needed-- to have sex with people other than her husband, so she talked him into an open marriage. Or rather, she had a good friend of hers seduce him. He has only indulged in the open marriage once, while she continued to seek out new partners. Sometimes this "hurts him," but he doesn't want to be "that guy," so he says he's happy with the arrangement. Reading between the lines, it seems that he's only agreeing to this arrangement to appease her.

So while it seems like polyamory could work in theory, I'm not convinced that, in Block's case, it's what everyone really wants. Much of her tone seems to be defensive: There's nothing wrong with us! My husband is happy! And hey, monogamous couples break up just as much as poly ones! Maybe she has to be defensive because she encounters so much judgment from other people. Or maybe the woman doth protest too much.

Dan Savage, one of my favorite writers and my absolutely favorite advice columnist, writes about his experience with open adoption. The birth mother of his son, a homeless drifter by choice, maintains infrequent contact with the boy she bore, who's being raised by Savage and his husband. One of the things I love about Savage's column is how he's not afraid to get all judgmental on his advice seekers-- in clever, snarky, and funny ways. This essay is pretty maudlin, though, as he talks about how hard it is, as a parent, for his son to have such a flaky, unreliable "mother." He gives the impression that he's had second thoughts about the whole open adoption process. This seems like another case of something that could work in theory, but not so much here.

The other article that raised my judgmental fur was called "Daddy Donoring" by Antonio Caya. It's about a guy who donates his sperm (the "old-fashioned way," which I always approve of) to a lesbian ex-girlfriend so that she can have a baby. He views it merely as doing a friend a favor; he doesn't want any of the emotional, financial, or legal responsibilities of fatherhood. He's a sperm donor and nothing more.

Okay, in theory I don't have a problem with this. I mean, yes, it's very hard for a single woman to raise a child on her own, and it's not ideal for the child, but neither is divorce or death or disease but these things happen all the time. If a single woman wants to have a child on her own, and can support that child financially, I won't stand in the way of that decision, as the Quakers say.

But here's what I find incredibly stupid: Caya tells everyone about it. Mr. I'm-Just-Spermman-And-Nothing-Else tells all his friends and family what he's doing. He makes a big announcement at a family dinner. He tells his new girlfriend. When he tells his mom, she gets in touch with the mother of his NotChild and plays the role of grandma. This does not seem consistent at all with his plan to have no relationship with this child. If it's not his child, then why is his mother playing grandma? If it's merely a sperm donation, then why is he making such a big deal out of it? This just doesn't seem consistent with his wish to remain completely free of this child.

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Aside from some other articles that I thought were simply not very well written , I haven't had many other judgmental impulses (so far) while reading the book. To show how open-minded I am, I don't have any problems with stories about prison marriages, interracial babies, international relationships, large adoptive families, marriages with large discrepancies in age/economic status, or fake-marrying your gay best friend so he doesn't get deported.

See, there are lots of ways to make a happy family.

Left-Leaning Timicitis

I told someone a few weeks ago, "I'm generally pretty healthy. I never get sick." Soon after that my case of Left-Leaning Timicitis started. That's what I get for saying stuff.

It started with two separate pains on two (seemingly) unrelated parts of my body. I went to the doctor, who prescribed some antibiotics to see if that would clear one up one, or maybe even both, of the tender areas.

Instead, two days after I started the antibiotics, a new third (and seemingly unrelated) area of my body started to get tender and swollenish. Incidentally, all three problem areas were on the left side of my body, which seemed like a weird coincidence. I called the dial-a-nurse to make sure the latest one wasn't an allergic reaction to the meds, but she assured me it wasn't. I decided to give it through the weekend to see if anything improved.

Neither of my three conditions improved by Monday, so I called the doctor's office again. I wanted to ask my doctor (actually she's my doctor's Physician's Assistant (PA)), if she thought I needed to come in again or if she wanted to just prescribe something else. I left a message with her assistant and waited for her response.

By lunchtime, one of my pains had become worrisome enough that I decided I would just go ahead and make an appointment anyway. So I called my health network to make an appointment. After navigating the phone tree through several people, I got a hold of someone who I think maybe works in my PA's building. I told her I was waiting to hear back from my PA, but I wanted to go ahead and make an appointment in the meantime. Then she asked the question that I hate, "What would you like to see the doctor about?"

I hate talking about my symptoms over the phone. Especially when I'm at work sitting at the Reference Desk in the middle of the library. I just said, "I was on some medications, but they're not working, so I want to see the doctor again." I hoped she would get the hint and drop it, but instead she followed up with, "and what were you taking the medications for?"

I sighed, and said softly, "I was having abdominal pains." I didn't feel the need to tell her about all of my ailments, just one should suffice. "Abdominal pains!?!?" She asked, as if I'd said my arm had just been torn off by a wheat thresher. "You were having abdominal pains and they didn't tell you to come in?"

"No, I was waiting to hear from the doctor."

"They really should have told you to come in. Did you tell the person this morning you were having abdominal pains?" Why was she mad at me?

"Look," I said, "It's the same thing I had last week. These are not new abdominal pains. I was on antibiotics and waiting to see if they would fix it. They haven't, so now I want to see the doctor about what to do next."

This calmed her down enough to put me on hold. A few seconds later I heard the sound of a phone ringing and my PA's assistant answered. "Um," I stammered, "I was trying to make an appointment to see my PA. They put me on hold."

The PA's assistant (Physician's Assistant's Assistant? PAA?) apologized for not getting back to me yet, but explained that she was on her lunch break. I didn't mean to interrupt her lunch break, I just wanted to schedule a fucking appointment! Can't anyone else there do that? (The PAA hadn't had to schedule my other appointments with the PA.) The PAA relayed to me that the PA had lots of theories about what could be wrong with me, and I needed to schedule some tests. Okay, I said, let's schedule those.

She confirmed my work and home phone numbers and then asked for my insurance information. "Um," I said, "Could I give you all that info when I come in?" She got snippy and said, "Sir, I need this information to make the appointment."

"I'm at work right now," I said. I just wanted to come in and talk to an actual medical professional, not a nurse over the phone. Why was that so complicated? She seemed to understand and her tone softened. She agreed to schedule an appointment with my PA.

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The next morning I took time off work to see the PA, the third time in the past month. I had so many symptoms, and so many of them new, I felt like a hypochondriac as I listed everything out. "I also have this pain....Oh, and I don't know if this means anything, but..."

In the time since I'd talked to her PAA over the phone, I'd investigated a bunch of conditions they wanted to test me for. (Don't tell a librarian they might have Blahtosis if you don't want them to look it up in three medical encyclopedias and two consumer health websites.) I kept saying things like, I know that some of the symptoms for Blahtosis include blah and blah..., but I only have a this and that. There was no clear indication of what was wrong with me, and this was complicated by the fact that I seemed to have three entirely unrelated ailments.

Why am I never a textbook case? Just once I'd like to be a normal patient with clear symptoms.

My PA ordered a bunch of tests, including a urine and blood sample, a CT scan and an ultrasound. I decided to take the entire day off work to get all of these tests in.

Little did I know, I would need the entire day. I spent the day with lots of medical personnel. Some of them were polite and competent. Some were impolite but competent. And some of them, the worst kind of all, were impolite and incompetent. In these situations I always wonder how much of that incompetence is really because of the individual, and how much of it is because they are hog-tied by the system-- maybe they have to observed certain procedures and protocols that limits their ability to act competently.

• My PA is very friendly and nice, but I fear that she might be in over her head with all of my weird symptoms. When I asked her if I could get all my tests done that day, so I wouldn't have to take more time off work, she designated my tests as "stat", which means they would schedule them that day. So that was nice.
  
• The phlebotomist who took my blood samples was gruff, and didn't really seem to care that the little compartment where I left my two(!) urine samples already had someone else's sample sitting there. When I told her that I didn't think another sample would fit in there, and maybe she should tell someone about it, she was uninterested. But otherwise she appeared to do her job well.
• The lady who made the "cocktail" (as she called it) that I had to drink before my CT scan was very friendly. She answered all my questions and apologized that I had to wait an hour and a half for the cocktail (barium?) to work its way through my system before they could scan me. She explained everything they were going to do, and also put an IV in my arm.
• The other people who helped with the CT scan were nice, but they were clearly overbooked that day. I showed up after my ultrasound at about 1:00, and waited in a small room that had the feel of a bus station with about a dozen people. They didn't even give me my "cocktail" until 2:00, so my scan couldn't go til 3:30. After my scan, around 4:00, I had to wait there with my IV in until a radiologist could analyze the results. It wasn't til around 5:00 when they took out my IV (which had been in my arm for three hours) and I could go home.
  

I hadn't eaten since 9:00 that morning, so when I got home I devoured half a chocolate-cream pie that was leftover from the weekend. I'm not proud.

After all that, the tests revealed nothing.

A few days later my blood tests came back, so my PAA called to let me know the results. Of all the health personnel I've dealt with, my PAA (Physician's Assistant's Assistant) is clearly the most useless. She's obviously reading the results off a report, but she has no idea what she's saying. If I try to ask a follow-up question, she says things like, "I don't know, my crystal ball is broken." Alrighty then! Thanks for your help!

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All of my tests came back negative. I supposed it's good to know I don't have (among other things) diverticulitis, kidney stones, or mono. Interestingly, the test was "suggestive of past mono." Apparently, I've had it before. I have no idea when that might have been, since I wasn't aware of it at the time.

But what the hell is wrong with me? Although none of them are unbearable, all of my symptoms are still there, so the PA suggests that I consult a surgeon, since one of my ailments may be hernia-related. Surgery makes me nervous, so I asked her if I could try a gastrointestinal specialist or urologist first. I'd even consider an endocrinologist. I'm just not ready to turn to someone whose first option is to cut into me.

In my more paranoid moments I wonder if I'm ground zero for some new unknown pandemic. Is this the start of the Timbonic Plague? Is that what I'll go down in history for?

Thirty Homes

I've often said that I want to live in a Jimmy Buffett song. This applies to many of his songs, but the one I most often think of is called "I Have Found Me a Home:"

You can have the rest
of everything I own
'cause I have found me a home.

I have had me lots of homes in my life, but none of them have ever made me feel like I'm in that song.

I recently told a friend of mine that I'd had "something like thirty addresses in my life." I wanted to be more precise about it, so I sat down this weekend and listed out all the places I've lived. Just having a list on a notepad didn't satisfy me, so I turned to my favorite recording mechanism, a spreadsheet.

I created a spreadsheet of all the different homes I've had in my life. (Click on image for full-size spreadsheet.) There are differing criteria on what constitutes a "home," but my spreadsheet tallied exactly 30 locations.


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The first eleven are places I lived with my family as a dependent, although the definition of my family changed quite a bit over those eighteen years. Except for a three-month stint in a hotel in Caracas, Venezuela, all of these homes were houses. The first seven locations I lived in with my parents and all four siblings. Then, one by one, my brothers and sisters graduated high school and went off to college, never to return (at least not to live.)

The one place I think of as the "house I grew up in", we lived in for five years when I was in the first through sixth grades.

The house was out of our family for 26 years until my sister bought it last year. Now it's back in the family and we had SchreiberFest there last year. I'm still yet to live in one dwelling longer (five years) than I lived there, the house on Westwind Place.

When I was twelve we moved to North Carolina, but by then it was only my parents and youngest older sister. Eventually my sister moved back to Indiana, and then my parents got divorced, and my subsequent moving with and between mom and dad led to homes #9 through #11. Between North Carolina and the divorce, I attended seven different schools in three years. (Maybe my next spreadsheet should be all the schools I've attended.)

After I graduated high school I moved back to Indiana to live with my sister and her new husband and go to college. In the half year I lived with them, they bought a house, so I moved again.

At 19, I moved into my own apartment, a depressing little downtown one-room (not one bedroom, but one room) hovel with an uneven floor that sloped down. A prostitute lived above me and a loud married couple lived behind me. I remember the husband screaming once, as he stormed out on his motorcycle, "I WILL SEE YOU IN HELL, BITCH!!" They didn't have a phone, so they would ask to use mine on occasion.

That was my very first home away from family, and since then I've found much better places to call home. I've had 17 homes in the past 18 years. I include three host families in that number, which may be a stretch, but I did have my own bed and received mail there, so I count it. I've had at least 20 roommates, housemates, or bedmates.

My final tally of thirty homes includes 13 houses (4 rentals), 12 apartments, three host families, one dorm and one hotel.

I've lived in twelve cities in seven states and four countries.

But I've never lived in a Jimmy Buffett song. (I've visited a few of them maybe, but I've never received mail there.)

Facebooking

When I first signed up for Facebook a year ago, I didn't get it. I knew it was a social networking site where you try to collect friends, but what did you do with it? It just felt like another place I had to log onto and visit on a regular basis. Another login and password to remember. For a long time I had about six Facebook friends and never did anything with it.

Then my wife moved out and I found myself seeking out every social opportunity I could. A good friend from high school found me on Facebook and friended me. We got in touch and I ended up visiting him in North Carolina last May.

Then I started meeting more people, and the question, "Are you on Facebook" became part of the conversation with new acquaintances. I'd make a new friend and then look them up on Facebook to find out more about them. Or I would think about old friends and wonder, "Hey, are they on Facebook?"

You can't discount the nostalgia factor on Facebook. It's never been so easy to track down old friends you've forgotten about, or have them track you down. But this leads to interesting discoveries about your changing values. In grade school and high school, I never thought about things like liberals or conservatives, so it's interesting to see where all of my friends ended up on the political scale. Who knew that the nerdy, quirky guy you knew in English class is now a Republican? Or that your best friend from Catholic grade school is an atheist?

Like with any technology, there's a learning curve to Facebook. It's a great way to try to express myself in clever ways, but I'm still trying to learn all the protocols and features. When my marriage ended, I wanted to surreptitiously remove my relationship status from my profile. I didn't want to list myself as single, I just wanted to delete the category altogether. So I did that, but then an update was sent out to all my friends, "Tim is no longer listed as married" with a little broken heart icon. Arrgh, that's exactly what I didn't want to announce! It's like trying to slip out of a meeting unnoticed and tripping over the power cord to the PA system, bringing the entire meeting to a stop and having everyone look right at you.

As the months have passed, I've become more active on Facebook and collected more "friends." The neat thing about it is how it's such an unlikely collection of relationships I've had throughout my life. Family members, friends from grade school, high school, college, grad school, and current friends "hang out" together with the guys I got drunk with last week. There's never been a place before where I could interact with all these disparate people at the same time. It's bizarre.

I don't have very many "friends" there. Unlike most people on Facebook, I don't have a network of hundreds of people. Whether that means I'm too selective or just not very popular, I try to keep it down to a manageable number. I currently have about 38, and that's about enough for me not to get overwhelmed.

Being the geeky demographics/statistics junkie that I am, here's a breakdown of my Facebook friends, divided into different categories based on how I know them:

• Library school friends (8). This is the largest single category, probably because librarians are such big technology dorks and I still come into contact with them at professional meetings.
  
• People I knew in high school (6). The nostalgia factor. I've only seen one of these people in person in the past 19 years. Four of them are guys from the wrestling team.
  
• New local friends I've made in the past year (not tennis- or drinking-related) (4).
• Guys I've gotten drunk with in the past year (3).
• People I play tennis with (3).
  
• Undergrad college friends (3).
• Spouses (and friends) of friends (3).
• Ex-girlfriends and women I've dated (am dating) (3).
• Best friend from fourth grade (haven't seen since junior high) (1)
• Best friend from junior high (haven't seen since high school) (1)
• Family member (brother) (1)
• Someone I met once at a party (1)
• Someone I've never met in person. She lives in another country, discovered my blog last year and we started a correspondence (1).

So there you have it: a lifetime of relationships listed out on a single Web 2.0 page. Of course there are many, many holes; lots of people I've forgotten about or who just don't have a Facebook page (i.e. the vast majority of my huge family). And this list is constantly in flux as I meet or discover more people on Facebook.

What would you call a Facebook fan-- a Facebookie? I guess that's what I've become.