F***book

I previously blogged about the inaccurate stereotype of the grumpy old man. It isn’t me (feel free to differ). I’ve mellowed. The perspective is that time is limited on earth and the things and people who might’ve been worth the bother before carry no weight now.

And yet, some still manage to pierce the wall of indifference. I will grant them recognition for their extraordinary effort.

Taking top prize this week is Facebook, which some refer to, with reason, as F***book. Forget that they change the format, procedures, rules, etc. every seven seconds. That barely qualifies as an annoyance.

Every day, they inundate me with hundreds of friend suggestions. Why do they think I relate to the undertaker in Des Moines? Or, the basket weaver in Saigon? Doesn’t matter.

However, when I come across a fellow kayaker who I share some interest with and hit the friend button, FB grills me about if we are friends, co-workers, etc., warning that I may have my privileges suspended if I’m fishing. Whoa, back up the train!

First of all, upon registration, you ask the purpose of joining FB and include networking as a choice. Isn’t reaching out to those who share your interests networking? You promote FB as a networking tool and then threaten reprisals if I use it as such.

Secondly, what about that undertaker and basket weaver you shoved at me. Not to mention hundreds of others I have little or nothing in common with? FB recommends these complete strangers but warns about attempting to link with those whom I overlap with, under penalty of shutting off my friending and deeming me spam.

On the other end, I get these inquiries about people who have fired off friend request to me. FB is trying to verify that they are friend, co-worker or whatever so they can come down on them if they are not. No thanks. I can make my own decisions and don’t need FB to do it for me. And, I’m not going to abet FB in wreaking havoc on these people attempting to network by denying we have a prior connection. What I am willing to do is report every FB email I receive as spam. Have a taste of your own medicine.

Honorable mention goes to the Canadians, aka off-brand white people. In August, I was driving around Ontario, spreading tourist dollars to bolster their economy. En route, I drove on their equivalent to interstates, although some were designated toll roads.

If there had been a tool booth, I would’ve happily parted with the coin of the realm. But no, there were just signs, stating that they are tracking vehicles and you can save some money by buying a transponder and making it easier on them.

Right. I have to be in Snug Harbour in three hours, but I’m going to pull over, download a transponder application form, find a way to print it out, mail it in and wait at the ramp for the shipment. Get real.

I forgot about it until this week when an invoice arrived (they scan and trace your license plates). It was for $17 in tolls. Fair enough. Plus, $50 for not having a transponder. Tabernac! (Canadian cursing) I’ll gladly pay the toll. But, until you facilitate a reasonable way to pay it or acquire a transponder at the point of entry, you can suck maple syrup before you get the punitive fee.

That out of the way, I’m back to my mellow self.