While it is a generalization to conclude that the behavior of all immigrants followed a pattern of anonymity once they arrived in America, there is considerable evidence to support that claim as it apples to my ancestors, particularly those who came from Sicily. There are a number of possible scenarios which may explain this phenomenon. The essential quality of the peasant farmer’s life in Sicily was geared toward overcoming adversity so that he could eke out a living for his family. Land ownership was a marker which signified one was in a different and better social class. I don’t believe my grandfather enjoyed any such luxury although he and his family owned the house in which they lived when he left Sicily in 1906. Work was often drudgery and difficult to find if it existed at all. Men had to travel out into the country in search of work while their families remained behind and did what they could until the men returned. This migratory practice figured prominently in my grandfather’s life when he left Sicily and came to this country. A letter I found written in Italian from one of his friends while the family was living in Philadelphia indicated that many Italians including my grandfather–and probably his sons when they were old enough–commuted to South Jersey to work as a day laborers and field hands on one of the local farms. The processes involved in this migrant workforce was not unlike that which plays out in immigrant communities today, only the ethnicity of the laborers has changed. Another letter I have describes an incident in which my grandfather had been directed to pay a fee to a certain man, probably the American equivalent of the padrone in Sicily, for the work that he and his sons had been given. As a child, I do not recall my grandfather speaking English so it is all the more plausible that his ability to secure work depended on either employers who spoke Italian–and Sicilian dialects were not familiar to all Italians which made communication among fellow Italians difficult as well–or relied upon the skills of an interlocutor who could speak for him to an employer, for a fee, of course.

Another factor may have figured prominently in the relative secrecy which appears to have shrouded some of the family subsequent to their arrival in this country. I recall anecdotes from different sources that hinted that my grandfather wanted to distance himself from the mafia which was apparently active in his native Sicily particularly in Belmonte Mezzagno–his birthplace–and San Giuseppe Jato–my grandmother’s birthplace. My grandfather was also leery of similar influences lurking in the teeming streets of south Philadelphia during the first quarter of the 20th century. It is an eery coincidence that known mafiosi from Belmonte Mezzagno and San Giuseppe Jato share a few ancestral surnames: Spera, Martorana, for example. I can add two personal accounts from my childhood that contribute to the mafia mistique. Although my father isn’t Italian he seemed to be the designated driver who chauffeured my grandmother and other family members–as children we were brought along despite our protestations to do something more interesting–from South Jersey into south Philadelphia to visit family and relatives ranging from my grandmother’s mother to her brothers and sisters and their children. It happened on one of those trips to visit an aunt who lived in one of the multitude of row houses bunched together like a line of old men while young men gathered in noisy pockets to shoot craps on a nearby street corner. My cousin Tommy–I think everybody was a cousin back then, even if they weren’t–with his slick hair do, black and shiny, sitting regally behind the wheel of his car motions for us to come over and have a look. The interior of that automobile was fine; however, everything about that car would have dissolved with age had my cousin not exposed the contents of the special compartment he had built into the console of his car. As we leaned in through the rolled down windows for a closer look, Tommy opened that compartment with a flourish and revealed a cache of weapons, one of which I believe to this day was a Thompson submachine gun. One Sunday morning as she was reading the Philadelphia Bulletin my mother called out in surprise that one of her uncles was on the cover of the Parade section. When I asked her what she meant she pointed out a man in the photograph standing on a street corner in Philadelphia. The caption read that the photograph was taken as part of an investigation of organized crime activity and the man on the corner was arrested as a numbers runner. A fertile imagination might account for the speculative nature of these incidents had it not been for all the times we’d stop by a bootlegging operation in a large brick factory building in south Philadelphia to buy Dago Red in gallon jugs before we’d slip back to Jersey over the Ben Franklin Bridge were much too gritty only to be the rambling dreams that a tired kid has nestled in the backseat of an old sedan between his grandmom and his siblings.

A couple of years ago or so I had an issue regarding a section of vinyl siding.  I contacted the company to have someone come out, inspect the situation, and repair or recommend what needed to be done–all of the materials were warranted for life.  Perhaps it was an oversight or maybe scheduling was really a problem, but I got no response until I wrote a letter to the owner, who, by the way never responded although a “supervisor” eventually appeared and grudgingly made some adjustments to the siding.  While he was on site he regaled me with anecdotes of the incompetence of the installers who worked for the company years ago, when the work was done on my house.  Unfortunately, there was some truth in his tale as I was informed later by an official from Duke Power of a code violation because there was vinyl siding covering the electrical service where it attaches to the house and connects to the meter.

A little more than two months ago, while my wife and I were cleaning the windows, we noticed a problem with one of the windows.  The problem is that the part of the window where the sash attaches to it has come detached from the window and remains at the bottom of the track when the window is raised.  So I called Pike’s and described the situation with the window.  I was greeted with what appeared to me was the usual truculent, defensive maneuver that so many companies resort to instead of simply ascertaining what the problem is and how it can be resolved.  After a considerable amount of time explaining, then establishing that I was a customer, etc., I was transferred to a another person in the company.  I repeated what I had told to the first person–I confess that my explanation may not have captured the problem as clearly as either I or the company representative would have liked–and suggested that it would be best if someone came out and inspected the window.  A date was set, an estimator arrived as scheduled, looked at the window, declared it a manufacturing defect, stated that his company no longer had that window, etc.  Defense again.  I produced my invoice from the installation and the records associated with it, which he reviewed.  I told him I wanted the window repaired or replaced.  Interestingly, when the estimator first looked at the windows he remarked that they were in really good shape!  I thought it odd that he would expect them to be in any other condition.  I’m not in the habit of destroying that which I have worked hard to afford!  At any rate, he told me that he would research the manufacturer of the windows and contact me in about two weeks.

Two weeks became two months.  I called Pike’s to find out the status regarding the problem with my window.  Once again I had to jump through hoops until I became just a bit warm under the collar and probably upped the decibel level of my voice whereupon I was handed off to another person who was considerably more adroit at recognizing there was such a thing as a customer and customers pay the bills.  Apologies all around and excepted.  I get transferred to the guy who came out to inspect my window; he tells me as others have told me that there was a miscommunication–of course there is always a miscommunication, remember Cool Hand Luke: When Strother Martin defines life’s biggest problem for Paul Newman!  What we have here is a failure to communicate! He says he will call me once he verifies the manufacturer of the windows, etc.  I’m told the company that manufactured my windows was sold about two years ago to another company.  Fine, just gather all the pertinent information and get back to me. I give him my cell number in addition to the land line so that he can call me at any time.  I get a call on my cell a day or two later while I am in the middle of something and can’t really talk but suggest that he either call me later or email me the information and I verify that he has my correct email address before I hang up.

A few days later I call the telephone number provided in the email I’ve received.  Ah, the wonders of technology!  Nowadays, all companies virtually guarantee that no customer will ever talk to a sentient being.  After navigating a maze of pre-programmed telephone options, none of which was categorized appropriately for my particular problem, I simply choose one, and then another, until I manage to find a living being to talk to.  All’s well that ends well, but the Bard be forgiven, that cliché is not applicable to my situation although one has to admire the novelty of customer relations:  I was told to Google the series number on the gold label on one of the bottom rails (maybe on the upper half or the bottom half) of my window and that would tell me who manufactured my windows because she was absolutely certain that her company was not the manufacturer.  I felt a sinking feeling come over me like an overweight mastodon strolling through the La Brea tar pits.  Google, despite many who believe that it is the font of all truth, the be-all and end-all of all that is, isn’t, but, I do the search anyway.  No manufacturer, not even close–maybe I should have given Bing a try.  Maybe next time.

So I call Pike’s once again.  I am regaled with menu of automated messages.  There is no live person available despite being informed by one of those messages that the hours during which the business operates coincides precisely with the time my call has been placed.  I leave a voice message.  I send an email.  Now another week has passed.  I suppose that my next step is writing to David Pike once again; however, my last experience seemed less than fruitful, in fact, he seemed to ignore it.  It appears that my only value to Pike’s occurred years ago when I wrote them a check and paid them in full.  Apparently the company was not seeking to build a viable, long-term, community-based, business relationship.  Owning a house is not a static proposition; maintenance and upkeep are constants; roofs need replacing.  Why would any company spurn or discourage paying customers?  Is it arrogance or incompetence?  Even when the economy is blushing with work and ripe with funds ready to be invested in divers of projects, the best businesses–large, small, local, international–will attend to customers rather than disregard them.

One should always carefully scrutinize any business before one enters into a relationship with that business and it is no less axiomatic because that company happens to be locally owned.  We thought we had taken the right step when we decided to support a local business but apparently we were mistaken.  Lifetime warranty is a euphemism if the company which stands behind it is a façade.  I’m not implying that all local businesses are taboo.  As a matter of fact, I think very highly of Talley Water Treatment Company which continues to provide the kind of service and quality that was pivotal in my decision to retain them.  I suffer no delusions that my venting in this blog will repair or replace the defective window; the three people who read this blog probably don’t intend to replace their windows or cover their houses with vinyl siding, but, I hope they’d contact me first if they were considering Pike’s for the job.  The only thing I can say for sure is that I paid for the window once; and, it looks as if I’ll have to pay for it again, only this time it certainly won’t be Pike!

My first tryst with the bargain books at the dollar store was a novel co-authored by Gene Hackman and Daniel Lenihan, who just happened to be a classmate of mine at Guilford College.  Curiosity prompted my first daring dollar purchase; however, the novel, Justice For None, proved to be very entertaining and well written so I resolved to frequent the dollar store and its small inventory of discounted books.
A few weeks ago I added three more dollar hardbacks–all novels–to my summer reading regime:  The Last Witchfinder by James Morrow; The Secret Supper by Javier Sierra; The Interpretation Of Murder by Jed Rubenfeld.  The novel I am currently reading, The Last Witchfinder, is a worthy followup to Hackman and Lenihan’s work and with the addition of its quirky approach–the book itself is the primary creative initiator and dictates itself to the author it chooses–appeals to the natural philosopher in me.  Check out your local dollar store where you may find bargains that don’t involve wrapping paper and off-brand batteries.

The stage design at Triad Stage has been unflaggingly impeccable and Tartuffe was no exception.  The entire cast is to be commended for its fine performance; it was a treat to attend a performance which included a number of different roles instead of the sparse characterizations that  recent economic conditions dictated.  The integration of so many roles was effortless although I must say that Rosie McGuire as Dorine stole the show in all the best ways one might construe such a theft without robbing fellow actors of their own considerable emoluments.

Tartuffe would have been good enough to persuade me to purchase season tickets for next year’s performances if I hadn’t already done so.

Since the instructions included a website where the process of verifying that one had an appliance that needed to be repaired per the recall notice as well as actually scheduling the repair itself, I opted to handle the process  online.  After three or four attempts, all of which ultimately ended apoplectically with an error message apologizing that the site was unable to complete the transaction for some arcane reason and suggested that I try again later.  I did, several times, all with the same, frustrating result.  The next morning I decided to try the online option one final time. The result was disappointing, although it appeared that the designer of the web interface had managed to achieve consistency.  Calling the toll free number noted in the letter seemed to be the better option at this point and well it should be as it was the only one remaining.  I had to jump through the same hoops covered in the online application in addition to the inevitable redundancies and non sequiturs that are invariably an unavoidable aspect of customer service; nevertheless, I was able to complete the transaction and was given a confirmation number for the scheduled repair.

The day before the serviceman was scheduled to do the repair on my refrigerator, I received a call from the service company that I selected to do the work.  While attempting to use the online option to schedule the repair to my refrigerator, I learned that there were two different companies authorized to do the repair from which one could choose.  Before I made my choice I spent several hours researching the two companies and reading pages of customer feedback regarding each company.  One company received such terrible reviews by so many people that I figured it was simply foolhardy not to select the other service company, Convenient Appliance Service, Inc.

I had scheduled the repair to be done in the morning–the window I was told in which I could expect the serviceman to arrive was between 8:00 AM and 12:00 PM.  Promptly at 8:00 AM the serviceman called to tell me he would arrive in 20 minutes, although I believe he pulled onto my driveway in under 15 minutes.  At least we were off to a good start, and thankfully, the experience did not degrade from that initial impression.  The young man was quick and courteous.  He explained what the problem was and what he was going to do to correct it.  Most of the time getting information in these situations is like pulling hen’s teeth.  Odds were pretty good that I was his first appointment, however, I don’t believe that his dress or demeanor would have been any less impressive had I been the last customer of the day.  What I can say is that I would have no qualms about ringing up Convenient Appliance Service, Inc. if my washer or any other appliance went on the fritz and I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend the company to any of my friends or acquaintances.  All in all I’d sum up my experience with a single word I’d heard coeds use when I was in college: Circe.  As I recall, Circe, used in this context, was a small, unexpected gift not the sorceress who turned men into pigs.

Any friend whose age is more than three score years and who has been out of touch for more than two score years has a way of capturing life’s evanescent characteristics in chillingly Lincolnesque terminology; it is even more sobering to realize that one has actually lived long enough to make it possible to have college classmates who could reappear after an absence of four decades, especially when one acknowledges that implicit in that realization is an unpleasant, if not grisly, observation that one has even fewer years remaining in one’s own life.  One is tempted to make the claim that youth measures time in units of infinity–a minute can explode into an eternity– and that prudence is the helpmeet of maturity; however, it is more likely that the young are arbitrary in the selection of whatever standard they apply; that life is both carousel and kaleidoscope, static and changing, rising from one turn and dissolving into another.  One generation becomes its own antecedent when age transforms its dreams into memories.

It is incorrect to assume that whenever we pause–to watch the wheels go round and round–that we have become immobile or even detrimentally idle when, in fact, our detachment has permitted us to regain a fresher perspective, equipped and enabled us to venture into the treacherous domain beneath the surface of the shell we call the self.  Of course the aim and hope, should we survive this episodic psychic spelunking, is that we will discover a world revived with its own light, a light to which we were once blind, and which retains an arcane potency to illuminate both literally and figuratively.  The eye is a gatekeeper of knowledge; the world we peruse is our lexicon, the cipher that corresponds to the landscape of the soul.

Ralph Waldo Emerson’s first wife died only two years after they were married; a little more than a year subsequent to her burial Emerson opened her coffin.  His reaction to death paralleled the Apostle Thomas‘ response reported in the Gospel of John to the resurrected Jesus; Emerson’s drive toward self-reliance was irrepressible and he had to see through his own eyes the remnants of death’s efficacy, the nail points of finality, the ineffable remains of love lost.  Whatever else he gleaned from his macabre gesture–doubt or proof–death was irrevocable; and, while he would afterward remarry and raise a family, Emerson’s love for his first wife, Ellen, remained intact; his life, however, the source of his vitality, would always be centered in the present.

While my given name is an eponym for doubt–paradoxically, it may also be considered an eponym for a type of belief–my own curiosity or need to know stops short of plunging into a loved one’s coffin to satisfy scientific inquiry.  On the other hand Emerson’s action is understandable.  Most of us do not awaken daily entertaining the possibilities that may await us.  Few of us confront the most sobering and irreversible of fates; and, fewer still are capable of the skill and grace of articulating our encounter as Keats demonstrated in his sonnet, When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be.  The boundary that death inscribes around one’s life seems implausible at first.  Whatever unit with which one reckons time, it does not prepare one for the sheer otherness of death and its satellites.  Who or what once was is no more.  A sentence trailing off as interest or expression loses its focus is hardly an instructive paradigm to prepare one for the loss of a loved one.   Experience prepares one for the enterprise of collecting the abstractions, the words cut loose from life, the rigid surrogates that attempt to imitate vitality, but its hospitality is a vain comfort for the bereaved, failing both love and reason.

It should not come as a surprise that one may tend to be more introspective whenever one encounters death–especially when the local newspaper seems to contain an inordinate number of obituaries of people who are one’s age or younger–or when one is confronted with injury or issues related to health, specifically those which have the chilling characteristics of being sudden, progressive, and without apparent origin.  Contemplating any person’s illness is daunting enough; however, when it involves one’s self, the mind can become overwhelmed by a legion of opinion and fear.  Most of us tend to brace ourselves with scenarios in which we are alternately healed or abandoned although neither may prove very likely once we commit our care to qualified professionals.

The mind needs the torque provided by some encounter with the natural world to keep it agile, vigorous and engaged–this is applicable, as well, to the constructs which derive from the mind’s activity such as the manifold forms of society, religions, governments, and the rich variety of cultures; however, death and illness are just two of the many powerful stimuli–the yeast to which Emerson referred–capable of attracting a process of the mind to its corresponding and edifying analog in nature.  The concern about my knee or the knowledge of my friend’s similar predicament, taken individually, is an insignificant event which bobs briefly before it sinks beneath the sea of consciousness; but, it is precisely this kind of abstraction and dismissive generality that severs the bond of intimacy that connects all that is.

I am unnerved from time to time when it occurs to me that, barring miraculous scientific discoveries in gerontology and depending on which life expectancy charts I adopt, I have consumed approximately 75% of that luscious apple pie my mother baked for me at my birth.  Although in one respect what remains of my life is a matter of simple addition or subtraction depending on one’s point of view–and truthfully that has always been the case regardless of one’s starting point on one’s continuum of aging–there remains a lifetime to complete.  While a sense of urgency has merit, becoming frenzied or harried as one re-calibrates the balance beam is inefficient and downright counterproductive.  The sun has risen far too high for me to be rescued by Herrick’s cavalier admonition To The Virgins, To Make Much Of Time, although living every moment to its fullest is certainly applicable at any time of life.  Of course for Emerson the living present was the source of our sustenance; the living now, the creative process was rooted in self-knowledge and grounds for discovery.

Whether it was just my anxiety over a bum knee or commiserating with the plight of an old friend, it seems fittingly appropriate that now I’m just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round, after all, Ezekiel said: the spirit of the living creatures was in the wheels.

Over the years I must admit that newspapers have been an integral part of my vegetable gardening–a layer of newspapers topped with a heaping amount of soil conditioner or straw has helped increase the yield of many crops, especially tomatoes, that might otherwise expire in the grueling summer sun in Piedmont North Carolina.  Old newsprint proved to be so effective that I started using it as a substrate element whenever I made a new planting bed, vegetable or otherwise–blueberries, blackberries, raspberries, even asparagus beds benefited from the decrease in the need for weeding as a result of strategically placed editions of the Sunday newspaper.

So what’s the caveat, what’s so difficult about being being green?  Don’t follow the newspaper regimen I’ve outlined whenever the beds are near one’s house.  Yesterday, I noticed what first appeared to be flying ants.  I captured one of the creatures in a zip-lock bag, did an online search for information on flying ants and termites complete with pictures and illustrations noting the determining characteristics of each, and discovered, much to my chagrin, that my baggy contained a swarming termite:  swarms don’t do any damage to wood themselves; however, male and female pairs do mate and with the production of egg and an adequate supply of food, a colony will develop.  Since we have a service contract with Terminix, I called the office and was promptly set up with an appointment for one of the supervisors to come to our house the following afternoon.  Meanwhile I had been in high sleuth mode and managed to locate the origin of the swarm, which was in a bed of gardenia’s I had planted using newspapers as a barrier under a good mound of mulch.  The Terminix people informed me that termites love newspaper, and why wouldn’t they since it is cellulose, the mainstay of the termites diet!

As Aristotle suggested, moderation in all things; and, I would add to that another homily: ignorance is not the source of bliss.  My zeal to embrace a greener approach to living was lacking an important moderating component: knowledge.  No matter how we live our lives, what philosophies, morals, ethics, religions we embrace, all produce consequences that become value-added only with perspective which, generally we provide–ay, there’s the rub!

The theater was alive with the sounds of ghosts–no sign of Julie Andrews; no trace of Demi Moore or Patrick Swayze hovering translucently to the Righteous Brothers‘ Unchained Melody.   Even before the play commenced the audience was treated to unctuous cooing sounds emanating, it seemed, from a collage of blurred images projected on a part of the set at one end of the stage.  For a few surrealistic moments, I expected a cadre of inebriated old men clad only in raincoats and sneakers to wander in and settle surreptitiously into the back rows of the theater while the canned orgasms of a porn flick droned in the background.  Is it really possible to confuse Damiano and Ibsen?

Almost every time an actor mentioned either the word ghost or ghosts the sound effects guy perfunctorily pushed the slider on his control panel labeled Cue Dumb Rumbling Sound To Insult The Intelligence Of The Audience.  I became so distracted after the first rumble or two that I found myself trying to anticipate which utterance of ghost would trigger the wrath of the theater thunder god.  There are times when Preston Lane is unable to refrain from the superfluous, and Ghosts was one of those occasions.  And more’s the pity since Ibsen’s play provides ample content and opportunity to challenge any actor, director, or audience.  All five actors gave very creditable performances:  Jeffery West and Gloria Biegler were simply exceptional; Blake DeLong and David McCann gave solid portrayals although I felt Pastor Manders was just a little wooden even at the moments when his inner struggle should have been more conspicuous; Rebecca Nertz’s interpretation of Regina was rather forced and uneven at times but I must confess to a tainted perspective that lingers insuperably since seeing Tobacco Road.  Despite some media endorsements to the contrary, I thought the play was an appalling failure–certainly not a production that would encourage continued support.

Although syphilis was ostensibly the unnamed subject of Ghosts and Ibsen transgressed social taboos by simply including references to the disease in public, his work  should not be mistaken as merely one dimensional; he demanded that we scrutinize the role (perhaps plight would not be too strong a word) of women in society as well as the toxic effect that organized religion (in this instance, Christianity) could have when it lost its vitality and became ossified and shut off from the simple compassion of its eponymous inspiration.  Ibsen ventured even further onto darker terrain as Regina and her father’s interplay at the beginning of the play suggests that there is a forbidden element in their relationship; however, as the characters are developed the maze of the play’s complexity is amplified and revealed.  Osvald’s syphilitic seizure in the last scene was protracted and melodramatic; the young man’s anguish and pain were onerous enough and did not require the deus ex machina conclusion (actually, both a confusing and an annoying distraction) whipped up by the fever-pitched rumbling of sound effects and the single shaft of light illuminating the morphine pills clutched in his mother’s outstretched hand; his misery was as complete and ironic as certain aspects of his character were innocent.  Yet, pleasure is never a solitary traveler, pain is its companion.  Ibsen and the Alvings knew this, and, when we are not distracted by the subterfuge of reality shows, sound effects, or our own armory of defenses, we know it too.

I opted not to call Terminix again.  It was clear to me that the ants would win hands down short of poisoning every living thing within a 50 yard radius of our house.  We use as few chemicals as is reasonably possible around the house and garden organically so nuking the environment with a cocktail of pesticides is not something we take lightly.  While talking to one of my neighbors I related my tale of woe regarding our ant infestation and he said there was a simple, inexpensive solution to my problem:  Terro.  Frankly, I thought his prescription sounded too good to be true, but it wasn’t.  Provided the problematic ants are the sweet eating type, Terro works like a charm.  Battalions of ants formed two lines: one marching to the feeding station that consisted of a piece of cardboard on which a few drops of clear Terro was placed and one returning to the nest carrying food.  Depending on the size of the ant colony, in a few days to a week, the ants will simply vanish.

With the ants in retreat, Murphy’s Law was immediately in play: the shower that had recently been repaired began leaking almost as mysteriously as it’s repair had easily be effected.  My wife had showered before me without a problem; however, when I finished showering, turning the knob to the off position did not stop the flow of water but allowed instead a steady, albeit, diminished stream of water to continue.  None of my attempts to stop the water flow were successful so I spent the morning and actually part of the afternoon contacting the plumber who had repaired the shower just a few months earlier.  When I was finally able to speak to a real person–the plumber’s voice mail was not working–I was told that the plumber was not in and he would return my call as soon as he was available, a scenario which, includes certain other skilled service professions, has become the norm.  By the time my wife returned from work in the evening the shower had stopped leaking as abruptly as it had begun several hours earlier.  When the plumber returned my call late in the afternoon of the following day I told him that the shower had simply repaired itself and was no longer leaking.  Since he was familiar with my shower and the type of hardware he said I should give him a heads-up if the leak reappeared so that he could get a replacement cartridge for my aging shower.

Recently I’ve been reading a systematic analysis of Nietzsche as a philosopher and the coincidence of anecdotal calamities involving home ownership suggested a less serious theme of recurrence; perhaps, not quite eternal in nature but at least possessing some extended cycle of periodicity.  If anything, Nietzsche’s idea of eternal recurrence seems to provide a sardonic footnote to the mayhem which has resulted in the unrestrained pursuit of the great American ideal of becoming a home owner and the consequential underpinnings of his nihilism.  Depending on one’s perspective–an integral point of reference for Nietzsche through which we impose grammatical order on the phenomenal flux of wills provisioned by our language and its unique structure–every iota of our physical and psychical existence, yea every tick of time down to the last detail (except there is no last detail to speak of) has come before and will come again exactly as it has before and will be again may or may not offer us comfort in the present or the incipient repetition of our lives.  I have and will call again that same plumber and he has and will reply again at the same time and same way and with the same advice.  If Nietzsche’s claim that any statement about “reality” is false then his own philosophical system is subject to the same test and is equally fallacious as it stands whereas its verity is hardly a candle of hope as it offers no improvement and would do little more than imprison whatever is–the phenomenal flux of will-to-power in a primal dance of force–in an absolute unending cycle of return.  While the yea-saying, life embracing approach of Nietzsche distinguishes him from Schopenhauer’s pessimism, it seems small consolation when one is actively embracing what has already been and will recur countless times thereafter:  one is reminded of the alchemical symbol of the snake devouring its tail or its modern visual analog, Bill Murray in Groundhog Day.  Hmmmm, is that the shower dripping? Again?

Facebook may be touted as a social network but it comes off a bit more tinny, gimicky than it is connective.  There are groups, games, applications, etc. which appear to be a kind of ruse instead of activities or areas that actually encourage or facilitate real communication or the exchange of ideas.  I may be way off base or even more confused than ignorant but a poke seems woefully deficient as a means for information transfer.  I will own up to the existence of a certain amount of cleverness; however, a quick inventory of posts yields very little word play and an abundance of glaringly mundane insertions of the status quo; and, I can attest to this because guilt taints my clumsy fingertips for authoring equally appalling one-liners regarding my own whereabouts or activities.  Nevertheless, I persisted.  In time I received friend invitations; it was difficult for my wife not to recognize me and, of course, my children gradually looked askance at the potential for embarrassment with my being present as a friend among their peers but they relented, threw caution to the electrons, and in the spirit of unrelenting self exposure, sent me invitations to join them in their circle of friends.

I decided to move slowly in this new environment, observing, exploring so my list of friends grew more along the lines of a stalagmitic accretion than a volcanic eruption.  After a week of genuine Holmesian sleuthing I managed to discover the identity of the person behind a rather baffling friend request.  It seems an high school classmate of mine sent me a friend request; however, she did not list the high school we attended in her profile nor did she include her photo.  The mystery was finally solved when I recognized her from the photo with which she later updated her profile.  Since she had been married and divorced three times it would have been less confusing and more efficient to use her maiden name, after all that was her name when we were in high school together!

About the same time I was engaged in my seven percent solution, another friend request arrived.  The request  was sent by a guy who was in my class at college and who I actually knew so I accepted.  I checked out the web site he listed for himself which turned out to be a blog on Blogger.  We weren’t close friends but we did know each other; it was hard not to be acquainted, at least, with nearly everyone on campus at such a small school.  In the spirit of tit-for-tat, I sent my re-acquired friend a link to my blog so that he could catch up.

Meanwhile my friend list remained skeletal; I was having very little success locating people I knew from high school and college.  I found myself in the opposite situation from those that I had read about in a recent web article where members of Facebook were re-evaluating their burgeoning friends lists and concluded for a variety of reasons that some drastic pruning was in order.  The process, in social networking parlance, is known as “unfriending“.  While eliminating one name or many from a register of hundreds or even thousands appears to be a rather simple task, these arborists soon discovered that their trimming resulted in truncated limbs, hurt feelings rather than restoring vigor to an unruly plant.  Being “unfriended” apparently devastated many folks, even those who admittedly had virtually no active connection with the “unfriender”.  Some who had been “unfriended” were so distraught that their appeals to their former friends was so plaintive that they were reinstated even though their status returned to its former inactivity.

Imagine my surprise when I reviewed my single digit list of friends and was unable to find the college mate whom I had just accepted as a friend.  Perhaps, there had been an error involving the particular college network group to which we belonged.  I continued my inquiry to locate the friend who had mysteriously disappeared.  And then it happened.  I was checking out the friends of a mutual friend when the friend who had vanished from my list remained on the list of a mutual friend.  It was too staggering for a novice like me to fathom such an act:  I had been “unfriended“.  I reeled from this revelation just as Shakespeare’s mortal Caesar wheeled to face his assassins, and uttered to the thankless wretch who set the trap:  This  was the most unkindest cut of all.