Information generation

How is it that I go away for one week, and four pop culture icons die? That's it - I'm never leaving Los Angeles again. I can't handle the drama. (Or, more truthfully, the weather in any other part of this country.)

I was in Stamford Tuesday morning when I learned about Ed McMahon. Rebecca and I were sipping homemade cappuccinos on the couch, and I was scrolling through Facebook when a series of sad status updates revealed his passing. Minutes later, The Today Show confirmed it. Not that I was at all surprised.

The TV delivered the Farrah news Thursday, and my mom and I shared a collective, but also, unsurprised, sigh. Hours later, while I was posting a work update on Twitter, I started seeing frantic tweets about MJ; I then horrified my mother with my multitasking multimedia capabilities as I refreshed the laptop with one hand and my iPhone with the other, shamelessly lapping up details to the story.

Facebook was also the bearer of the bad Billy Mays news, this time minutes after my plane landed today and I turned on my phone desperate - after six and a half hours in the air - for a connection with the outside world. Maybe I should just shut my technology down for a day and hope that the rest of Hollywood stays safe.

Oops. Too late.

When I wasn't checking Facebook or Twitter or thanking the iPhone Gods for the GPS that let me drive effortlessly from one friend's house to another, I was, actually, on vacation. I saw everyone I intended to see, met and reconnected with their kids, parents, and/or pets, and generally spent some much needed quality time with everyone.

What I didn't do was see the sun for seven days. It seriously rained every single day I was away, if not the entire time, just often enough to keep anyone from becoming too optimistic. I wasn't expecting beach weather, but it would have been nice to have had some meals and drinks outdoors, maybe go for a walk or a run. As things were, I got very little exercise but a f#&%ing arkload of damp, gray, cloudy skies. I can not underestimate for you my ABSOLUTE and UTTER JOY and RELIEF and ELATION at arriving at a sun-drenched LAX this afternoon.

And what do I do? I stay inside and blog about it.

Nights to remember

So, after all that, I had a fantastic birthday. Thank you to everyone who commented, called, emailed, Facebooked, texted, and just generally made me feel so special and loved throughout the day. My company gives us all our birthdays off (yay!) so I slept in a little, got my coffee, and opened up my computer to an entire screen of Facebook messages that continually kept me amused. I said it there and I'll say it here, Facebook is the best thing to happen to birthdays since cake. I don't care if I don't talk to half the people who chimed in - it was just a nice reminder of all the people who have, in 33 years, made up what I can't help but admit is a very charmed life.

When I wasn't chained to the computer, I took a new yoga class, got a FABULOUS facial, and met my five best friends for dinner and drinks. I got home shortly before midnight, full of cheap tacos and free shots, happy at making the most of my day.

Now that my birthday is over, though, I am ridiculously excited to concentrate on Nicole's birthday party planned for this weekend. The theme is 1992 Prom - we are all dressing in prom gear from the early 90's. I'll post pictures next week, but in the meantime, I thought I'd warm you up with some photos from my own high school dances from the same era.

Sophomore Semi-Formal - 1992

Oy to the vey, as Nicole would say. The thing is? I still love that color pink, and still wear it enough that I can shamelessly say, it's a good color on me. I stand behind the color choice, if not exactly the style.

This was an awkward event. Girls ask boys to this, for some reason, and while I was friendly with my date, I wouldn't say we were good friends. To be honest, I am not even sure why I asked him. We got along well enough but there was no attraction, and therefore no real excitement, and I'm pretty sure we just walked through the motions of sharing our first (semi-)formal dance. I was actually dating a junior at the time, though it didn't stop me from making out with yet a third person at the after-party. Said third person was actually Bryan, who I apparently still held a flame for and felt the need to remind him of what he was missing. Bryan didn't go to our school at that point - had just come to the after-party - so it wasn't like I stole anyone else's date.

Unlike at Junior Prom , in 1993, which was ripe with attraction, sexual tension, jealousy, drunkeness, and everything else John Hughes could have set me up to expect from a school dance.

First, I had the best date. Really fun, awesome guy who I was super comfortable with but also a tiny bit attracted to. Word had it, he was attracted to me as well, so we easily and candidly flirted throughout the night. The whole dance went by in a blur.

I should also mention, I loved my dress, thought my hair came out great, and overall, was just feeling really confident. It clearly shows, especially compared to the two other photos here.

The problem came at some point during the after party. My date managed to drink so much in such a short amount of time, he passed out. At which point, another guy (who went with my friend) swooped in to hit on me. I was flattered by and intrigued by the attention. This had never happened before! Two boys! Or actually, no boys. I resisted the second guy's advances, but because he tried to kiss me in the middle of a crowded room, word spread to both his date and my date, who then woke up and (if I remember correctly) had a testosterone-fueled tantrum about the whole thing. I couldn't say it out loud, but I was thinking, Dude. If you hadn't done that tenth keg stand, you could be rounding second base right about now.

Then there was my Senior Prom in 1994.

This pretty much sucked. Again, I was dating someone at the time, and I made the mistake of bringing him. He was in the grade below me, so while he had enough friends in my class, he was still more like "my date" than a natural part of the group. And since we had been dating for five or six months by then, there was no tension, no anticipation, no surprises. There was also no after-party. I remember everyone in my grade gathering in a parking lot somewhere discussing where to go. Talking and talking and talking and talking. No drinking.

Appearance-wise, while I liked my dress, I didn't LOVE it. I didn't feel sexy or attractive or whatever is appropriate for a 17 year old to feel. I had also had my hair blown out - but then the late-May, Northeast humidity immediately brought back the curl. So then I tried putting my hair up myself - to no avail - and ended up with the careless half-up/half-down look I wore to school on days when I couldn't fit in a shower. What did I care? The night hadn't even started and I was already looking forward to getting it over with. Boo...

So now that I am older, have better fashion sense, and can actually drink legally, you can see why I am very much looking forward to this weekend. It's not that I want to make up for lost time, exactly, but that I am more than ready to make new memories.

Dear Somalia: Ur Doin It Wrong

September 19th may be Talk Like a Pirate Day, but in the last hour, two pirate-related things have made today my own personal Pirate appreciation day.

First was this video, in which Empire magazine (I've never heard of it, either) has arranged for a Goonies reunion.

This was one of my favorite movies growing up, and since I'll still watch it anytime it comes on basic cable, it's fair to say is one my favorite movies ever. I had a huge crush on Josh Brolin (well before he was Josh Brolin) and wanted to BE Kerri Green. I didn't want to be Andi, per se, rather some amalgamation of Andi and Kerri Green's character, Maggie, in Lucas. I have always wondered what happened to her, as she was one of the few stars in the movie that didn't go on to bigger things, but I can kind of appreciate the fact that she didn't work as an adult and I can therefore then always think of her as a charming teenager, someone whom I aspired to be.

Not five minutes after I finished watching the video, I decided to waste more time on Facebook, and discovered the new option of browsing like a Pirate.

Have you seen this, yet? Go down to the lower left hand corner on the homepage, and you'll see the language you are currently operating in. Click on that, then change it to English (Pirate). Arrgh! Now my homepage welcomes me with "Ahoy, there!", encourages me to "be mateys" with people I may know, and counts the time since I've updated my status in "shots of rum". As in, I updated my status 31 shots of rum ago.

That's MUCH more fun than the former option, and has given me faith in Facebook once again.

Once upon a time I was popular

Okay, Facebook, you've redeemed yourself.

(click to embiggen)

If you can't transport me back to 1996, you can at least remind me that the best parts still exist.

One more way Facebook can control my life

Just as apartment-seekers might eventually check the obituaries to find a new home, I've decided that Facebook - which notes who, among my former friends, is ending their relationship - might be just as an efficient way for me to find a boyfriend.

Though I suppose I should wait til he takes the wedding photos down from his profile before I officially make my "move".

On Facebook, actions speak louder than words

While Facebook often annoys me, sometimes it just baffles me.

As anyone on the site knows, you can download a seemingly endless assortment of "Superpoke" applications that provide inane interaction with other members. Just for fun, you can gift a friend with an (imaginary) imitation designer bag, plant a flower in someone's virtual garden, or throw a sheep at anyone and everyone you wish.

Shortly after I first started on Facebook, I made a conscious decision to blackball all of these "pokes". You have to download each application in order to accept or return the gifts/sheep/roundhouse kicks, and it would take too long and be too annoying to bother with each one. More than that, with each "gift" comes grief and guilt, should you not wish to return that tennis serve or blow a kiss back to the annoying girl who sent it. Every "poke" becomes an exercise in etiquette, as we all secretly wonder if a Fuzzy Navel is an appropriate exchange for that Makers on the rocks, or if the initiator will notice (and take to heart) if we ignore the action entirely. If I avoid every application across the board, though, I'll never be accused of playing favorites or have to explain why I helped build a playground but didn't further the Orangemen wave.

I don't get too many Superpokes anymore, but every once in a while, one will come through. Today, someone apparently downloaded the "Snowball fight" application, because I got a - are you ready for it? I got a Pee Snowball sent to me.

A Pee Snowball.

I assume that's what I think it is? A snowball with pee on it? (In it?) Not only is that terribly gross, but how random! I can't even see the humor in it - I am just so baffled that someone would even think of creating that. What puzzles me even more is that the girl who sent it to me is someone I have not even talked to since about the first grade. Oh, we went to high school together, but we were in different groups and she was always very quiet and shy. I can't imagine why she would want to break the ice, all these years later, with this.

Technically, semantically, it wasn't even sent to me - it was thrown at me, which has the implication of being a little bit hostile. Like somebody would actually choose to wet their hands with pee, if it meant seeing a snowball hit me! I'm sure it wasn't malicious, of course, and that she either meant to send it to someone else or meant to send me something much more... um... normal, but this is yet another way Facebook has managed to make me feel bad about my neck.

Fire in the sky

As much as I complain about Facebook, it really has brought a lot of good memories and acquaintances back into my life.

Just today, my favorite former boss found and friended me. And a few months ago, my very first boss and I reconnected. He was one of the two Creative Directors I assisted at the ad agency where I worked right after college; as the younger and hipper of the two, he naturally was the one I bonded with first. (It didn't hurt that he was also from Boston).

Now that he heads his own agency here in LA, he's quite involved in a lot of online media/social networking sites - he typically updates on Twitter/Facebook at least 10 times per day. In the weeks leading up to the election, he'd sometimes post 10 times per hour, linking to relevant news stories and adding commentary of his own. It is no exaggeration to say that much of the media I consumed in those weeks was through him; at the very least, he fed the hunger for information I was already craving.

I logged onto Facebook this morning and saw he had posted a steady stream of status updates since last night: he lost his home in the Sylmar fire. Watched as it grew closer, tried to save it with the firefighters, was humbled as it went up in flames, evacuated with his wife and dog, slept at Best Western for the night, and so on. I didn't see his updates until this morning, when he was already posting new ones, post-devastation, but it's incredibly jarring reading this in real time.

I emailed him immediately, offered my support, asking if there was anything I could do. What can I do? The loss of a house in a wildfire is incomprehensible to me. I assume they have their car, and little, if much else. I remember his office ten years ago was filled with prized prints, artwork and memorabilia - I can only imagine what other mementos he's accumulated by now.

Since this morning, he's added an album of photos he took - apparently from the scene - that literally look like they came off the set of Backdraft. Only scarier, because they are real. I don't know if I'm more amazed that he took so many photos so entrenched in the embers, or that, among everything else, he's found the time and resources to post them to Facebook. I do know that many of them are also posted on the AP wire.

It's weird. In a pre-Internet - pre-Facebook time, even - I never would have known about him being affected like this. Wouldn't have been back in touch. Certainly wouldn't have been able to follow along. But now that I do, I feel some obligation to do react, help however I can. Though I haven't seen him in person in ten years, the last six months of status updates and dog photos have given me a brief window into his life, and fostered a familiarity that makes me kind of feel like a part of it.

Thanks for the memories even though they weren't so great

I'm not a happy camper.

The weekend started out well enough. I woke up early, went to yoga, ran, and then, because it was 82 degrees out, went to the beach. In November. Hi, Life? Love you.

Shortly after I got home from the beach, however, I got a frantic message from my high school friend Rebecca: "Lori, you you have to see the photos posted on Facebook!" My stomach sank.

I've been waiting for this day. The day the hideous grade school photos would surface. I know we've all had awkward years. But I don't need mine posted on Facebook as a reminder.

Maybe I'm vain, or shallow, or just incredibly insecure, but I prefer not to post unflattering photos of myself online. I can laugh at them with friends and family, and even my fellow blog readers. But I have Facebook friends that are professional connections, former paramours, and frankly, people I would just prefer to look pretty for. I don't care if the bad photos were taken when I was 10. They still strike a nerve that's surprisingly sensitive.

Of course, I could untag myself. (And I did, from the worst of the three). But then I'd appear to be taking things much too seriously, and probably calling more attention to the issue than if I just left it alone. Or, than if I just sucked it up and made my own funny comment under the caption. Laughed at myself before they could laugh at me. But it's really hard to laugh at what I've spent the last 20 years trying to forget.

One nice thing to come out of this was a friend request from my fifth grade teacher - the one who taught us to sing in sign language. We spent time catching up, and she gave me an email address for my fourth grade teacher. I've mentioned him before - the one who directed the play, the one who came up in my psychic reading... Anyway, I emailed him tonight. Let's hope the address is current.

Other than that drama, my weekend was pretty tame. I visited Nicole in the hospital today, and she looked splendid. During my two and a half hour stay, there were never less than four different visitors in the room - a steady stream of friends and family kept coming and going; the phone did not stop ringing; and the room had long run out of vases for the many bouquets that came through. Keep sending her good thoughts, though. It may have seemed like a party, but her recovery is just getting started.

Last night, I was supposed to go to this magazine issue launch party. My friend is the advertising director, so I've attended a few of them before. They're nothing crazy, but offer up free food and bevvies, and some C-list celebs - good enough for me. Unfortunately, this particular party was being held in a hotel penthouse, and there was only one elevator to take guests up. And that elevator seemed to hold only four people. We stood in line for 45 minutes, only to move a few feet. Finally, at 9 PM, we started asking about the hold-up. Apparently, Paris Hilton was upstairs with the cast of My New BFF, and they were either shooting or just not granting access to anyone else.

With that news, Tracy and I turned to each other and agreed to head out. I don't know when it happened that having Paris Hilton at a party turned into a reason to leave rather than a reason to stay, but there you have it. Say what you will about my Facebook photos, I guess I'm not really that shallow.

How can the life of such a man be in the palm of some fool's hand

To say that I'm obsessed with my iPhone would be putting it mildly. The only thing that might possibly hold my interest more is this crazy election.

Last night I sat, transfixed on my couch, dedicating half of my attention to Palin's speech, and the other half refreshing my Facebook application, reading the seemingly constant updates from my friends in response to said speech. Never mind that my laptop was five feet away - the iPhone fit so conveniently in one hand, leaving the other one free to gag myself.

About 80% of the comments were stating what I thought was obvious: that she was all sass and no substance. Most of the comments were from people who, like me, saw through the rhetoric and won't be voting Republican.

But then, every so often, someone would chime in about how they were a "pal of Palin" or how inspiring she was, and I was like, Really? I'm friends with you? What on earth do we have in common? And I kind of, just maybe, thought about defriending them.

Of course, I'm totally kidding about defriending them.

Except, maybe not totally.

Put to the test

Okay, kids, POP QUIZ!

You find yourself at work, in the middle of a 5.4 earthquake. Do you:

A.) Hide under your desk

B.) Stand under a supported doorway

C.) Run outside into an open field or park

D.) Update your Facebook status

Well, apparently I was in the minority for thinking the answer was B, as I was the only person at work standing under my doorway. Everyone else, it seemed, wanted to get outside, away from the building, so I followed them to the sidewalk.

When we went back in, maybe five minutes later, I thought to myself "I wonder how many people have already updated this on their Facebook status?"

The answer, at just before noon, was 10. Now that has more than doubled.

At first, I just thought it was funny that everyone's - including my own - instinct was to share the experience. Some people were being practical, letting friends and family know that all was well. Some clearly did it for bragging rights, and some people, like me, were probably just excited to have something new and interesting to share. After all, if it didn't happen on Facebook, did it really happen at all?

Then, having lived in New York through both 9/11 and the Blackout of 2003, I found myself wondering what those days would have been like had some similar application been around then. Sure, we were lacking electricity and phone service for a while, but nowadays almost anyone can text their way onto Facebook if their wireless access goes down. My parents aren't on Facebook but some relatives are, and it could certainly serve as one-stop shopping to keep everyone else in the loop.

Anyway, for those of you wondering, I am fine. I work in a very old (historically landmarked) brick building, and the walls crumble down on a good day! When it first started, I thought it was just a small one, but it got very loud and a little scary pretty fast; then, just as quickly, it was over. I do have a bit of a mess of brick and mortar debris to clean up, but there was no major damage to anything beyond some people's nerves.

I was curious returning home to my apartment tonight, but from the looks of it, you'd never know there was a quake at all. Not a single frame or vase or any of my 10,000 beauty products were a smidge out of place.

What I've come to realize about quakes is that by the time you can think to be scared of them, they are over. And, after they are over, I have a tendency to forget that I might have been scared, because I can't remember how long it lasted or how loud it was or what it really felt like having the floor roll beneath my feet. My brain only remembers thinking everyone was overreacting for going outside and that I really wanted to finish my status report.

The only thing I even should be concerned about at this point is that earthquakes tend to happen in groups, and this may have only been the first in a while to rattle our chains. Fortunately, I am leaving tomorrow for my annual trip to Hotlanta, and will hope that the friendly skies prove a bit more stable than solid ground.

Just a little more wining

A few weeks ago, I wrote a post complaining that Facebook, with its gossipy news feed and sudden influx of my (now married) high school class, sparked an insecurity I haven't felt in years. Now, in addition to making me self-conscious about being single, it's also found a way to imply that I'm inadequate as a consumer.

13 of your friends installed the Facebook for iPhone application to their phones.

Really, though? The iPhone, apparently, is the new Benetton Rugby. Only my seventh grade PA system didn't announce, every morning, who happened to have one. If this isn't the definition of "peer pressure," I don't know what is.

Fortunately, I didn't have to impress any Facebook friends this weekend, and instead spent it with real ones at Laura's bachelorette party.

I've mentioned before that Laura was one of my first friends in LA. She's just very warm and friendly and easy to be with, and the crowd this weekend reflected that. There were fourteen of us there from all walks of Laura's life - high school, college, and the post-college group of girls she charmed just like me - and everyone was just so fun, so normal, and so great to be around. It was a refreshing, relaxing, exhilarating weekend.

The endless bottles of wine I'm sure had nothing to do with it.

Facebook makes me feel bad about my neck

As if it's not enough of a blow to see that the vast majority of my high school class has all successfully settled down into smug-marrieds and mommies-with-babies, now Facebook has started adding these updates to my feed:

9 of your friends are now friends with So-and-So

Okay. Great. So, So-and-So friend-requested nine people I know, but not me?

Thanks, Facebook. It really is like high school all over again.

Just asking

What does it say about me that every time I read the "What are you doing right now" prompt on Facebook, I instinctively read it as, "What are you wearing right now" and feel just a little bit violated?

Note to self: don't rent porn from Blockbuster

A few months ago, Facebook launched a new ad partnership in which, when users purchased certain goods or services online, the social networking site would announce the activity to all of the user's contacts. So, if say, I rented a movie from Blockbuster, that news would magically appear via feed on my profile, announcing to everyone in my address book what I was watching. The partnership has been panned in the press and with users nationwide, but I rarely download anything on Facebook and shop online less often, so the issue has never really affected me. Until now.

I spent the afternoon creating a wedding website for my friend Kristin. To do so, I created a new email account under her name and signed into TheKnot.com using her contact information. So imagine my surprise when I logged onto Facebook an hour later and there, in bold letters under my profile, was news that - surprise! - I had created a wedding website on The Knot!

I'm sorry, what? The email address I use for Facebook and the one I created to set up for Kristin are completely separate; one is Yahoo, the other, Gmail. I'm a little annoyed at Facebook, and more than a little freaked out that such a connection could be made from what I thought was unconnected information. What's really killing me though, is that I have been kind of dating someone on Facebook for a few weeks (Hi! What's up?! You know that wasn't about you, right?) and I can just imagine his reaction at six dates in, thinking I have started planning our future. I have enough problems with dating as it is. I don't need Facebook getting in on the action.

Otherwise, the weekend was interesting. Friday night I saw Atonement at the new Landmark theater down the street. The movie was okay, but the seating was fantastic - it was an entire theater filled with couches! Like the Arclight, you can choose your seats in advance, but here, you could actually select which couch you would like to lounge on. The theater nearly empty, we were able to kick back, spread out, and feel like we were guests at a private screening. The only thing missing was a cocktail.

Last night, I went to a birthday party with Lauren and Nicole. The party was being held at a bar in my neighborhood, so they came over early to drink some wine and catch up. We headed out around 10:30, and, as I went to lock the door behind me, the key broke in half. Just simply, neatly, snapped off - the head in my hand, the body of the key flush with the lock.

There was nothing we could do at that hour, however, other than go and have a good time, so that we did. I stayed at Lauren's house in Malibu, borrowing clothes and amenities so at least I felt more human than homeless. And we started today off right, waking up to waves crashing, the sun streaming in through picture windows, and a yummy, soapy celebrity sighting at Starbucks - Jax, from General Hospital. We lounged in the late morning sun for an hour, until I eventually called a locksmith; 14 hours and $200 later, I was home once again. Getting myself in trouble on the Internet.

More Random Tuesday Goodness

- Honestly? In 2004, could we ever have imagined that Kevin Federline would turn out to be the better parent?

- At the risk of asking the obvious, what is the point of the "poke" application on Facebook? I'm not being facetious, I honestly just don't get it. Is it a flirting thing? If so, then why am I getting poked by a.) a married girlfriend who never accepted my friend request and b.) some guy I don't know at all but is married with kids? I mean, why don't you just send me an email?

But you know what - don't bother. Like Hilary, I've recently found myself entirely over the whole concept of both Facebook and MySpace. What will I do with my free time now? Maybe converse with people in person, I guess.

- When I lived in NYC, I constantly had to take my shoes in to get re-soled. I took them wherever was most convenient, but I remember friends saying, in passing, "Oh, I have the best shoe guy!" I never really understood what made one shoe guy better than another. All they ever did for me was replace my heels, reinforce the toes, and give my old kickers a nice buff and shine, usually for $15 or less.

Well, today I learned that you can't recognize a good shoe guy until you go to a bad one. I'd put on a pair of wedges I'd just gotten back from the cobbler, and realized, only after I left the house, that they seemed unnaturally high and wobbly. Upon closer inspection, it seems that the new heel tips he put on were about an eighth of an inch higher than the originals. A small amount, sure, but enough to make my foot arch at an uncomfortably high angle. I tripped twice at work alone, and no, I hadn't been drinking. I suppose I could have just been unused to the arch, since my former heels had worn down some; but, if that was the case, the cobbler should have reinforced the toes too, to balance them out. Boo for bad service.

- How is it that three friends can call me in the span of a 10 minute shower, but when I sit alone in traffic for an hour and a half, not a single person in my address book can pick up their god damn cell phone?

- Finally, I'll leave you with a cute picture of me and my mom from this weekend, because, you know, I haven't posted about her at all lately. More photos are here.