Facebook owes me a new girlfriend!

Have you seen that movie yet about Mark Zuckerberg, the guy that founded Facebook? I haven’t yet, but I’m going to.

I’m hoping at some point during the film they’ll give out his address. I need to get hold of him.

He owes me a girlfriend.

The girl I’ve been seeing off-and-on for the past year is “off” again and it’s Zuckerberg’s fault. No, she didn’t leave me for him; far as I know, they’ve never met, even on Facebook. But he’s responsible for our recent split all the same.

OK, maybe I’d better back up.

I’ve had a Facebook page for a couple years. My daughter helped me set it up shortly after the Former Lovely Mrs. Taylor lit out for parts unknown. For a long time, I couldn’t see the point of the thing, but Facebook—as regular users of the site already know—draws you in as surely and inexorably as a siren’s song draws sailors to rocky shoals, and with pretty much the same results.

A few months ago, I introduced the Facebook experience to my then Significant Other, who took to it like a squirrel to acorns. Within days, she had posted photos, a profile, lists of her favorite music and stats about her education, hopes, dreams and the names of every cat she’s ever owned.

Every morning she would check in with Zuckerberg’s creation to see which of her “friends” had slept well, eaten a big breakfast, had a case of the “Mondays,” or liked a hilarious YouTube link. You know, the kind of stuff you just can’t live without knowing.

Most importantly, she would check to see what I had said to my Facebook friends.

Aware she performed these daily checks, I was pretty careful about what I said. You’d never find me posting anything about women being “difficult,” “unfathomable,” or “plumb crazy.” Likewise, I never implied life with my Significant Other was anything but pure Nirvana (the state of being, not the band).

Then I put up a page for my little weekend band and all hell broke loose.

The band page didn’t contain anything objectionable, but in posting it, I—apparently, though I have no idea how—updated my “profile.” Now, I didn’t change anything in my profile; it remained the same as it had been for two years.

But it did state I was interested in a “relationship” with a member of the opposite sex. That bit of information had been in there since I posted the page and I’ve never thought about it at all. Certainly I wasn’t looking for a relationship, not since meeting my S.O. about a year ago.

At any rate, my S.O. noticed I had updated the profile, checked it, saw the offending checkmark, and managed to work herself into a bit of a snit about it. No amount of pathetic explaining or nauseating whining on my part would assuage her discontent.

Even changing my profile (intentionally this time) to reflect my “off the market” status failed to satisfy her (though, admittedly, by the time I did this I was acting pretty snitty myself). Things escalated from there and we decided to part ways before shots were exchanged.

So I’m a lonely bachelor again and far as I can tell, it’s Zuckerberg’s fault. There are millions of eligible girls on Facebook. He’d better find me one before I find him.

More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

My new lock will prevent crooks from stealing…my new lock

Somebody stole my bike lock; not the bike itself, just the lock.

I’m assuming the perp was a master thief of some kind, probably of the cat burglar variety, the sort that dons a black stocking cap and leather gloves before scaling the sides of an office building using only suction cups.

The lock was swiped while I sat nestled inside a nice little pub, celebrating the completion of my recent cross-state bicycle tour. The bike was locked securely (or so I thought) to the rack on the back of the Bonneville.

In deference to the good taste of the thief, I must admit the lock was probably worth more than the bike and car put together. The bike is an ancient Fuji I purchased for $25 several years ago at a Lion’s Club charity auction in Lakeview, then my hometown.

As to the Bonneville, the kindest thing one might say is that—despite all odds—it continues to run.

The lock, on the other hand, was brand new, purchased just prior to my tour at an upscale bike shop in Ada Village. It was made of case-hardened steel, fused to a thick, barely-flexible cable of braided metal thicker than my index finger.

According to the girl at the bike shop, it was the best lock the store offers, guaranteed to resist all but the most diligent assault by a phalanx of bicycle burglars armed to the teeth with state-of-the-art bolt cutters, welding torches and battle axes.

Also a plus, it was one of those locks that let you set your own combination. This, I now suspect, was my downfall.

Apparently I’m not the first knucklehead to choose 1-2-3-4 as my “secret” unlock code.

At the time I set the thing, I said to myself, “What are the odds a crook is going to try that combination? Surely, no self-respecting thief would go for such an obvious code.”

Wrong. My guess now is that it’s the first combination the thief tried.

I didn’t even notice it was gone until I arrived home and made to unpack the bike from its rack. Even then I figured I had just forgotten to lock it up and that the lock was buried in one of the bike’s Pannier bags. It wasn’t until later that I recalled distinctly having locked the thing up before going in the pub.

And so I found myself back at the bike store yesterday, shelling out another $30 for a replacement lock, identical to the one that was stolen, with one notable exception: my combination is now far more difficult for a crook to cipher.

Surely nobody would ever try 4-3-2-1, right?

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

Being a nerd at my age isn’t so bad, really

It’s hard to believe how nerdy I’ve become in the years since I turned 40. I used to be pretty cool, honest. People who know me now would never believe that, but it’s true.

There was a time, many years ago, when I was young, thin (more or less), had a good job, and drove a little red sports car that was always clean, waxed and smelling of that stuff that comes in a little can and hides under the driver’s side seat. In conversation, I called people “dude.”

Now I’m not thin, I don’t have a good job, and I drive a ten-speed or my girlfriend’s Pontiac that looks like it hasn’t been washed since coming off the assembly line eight years ago. There are child seats in back for the grandkids.

My sneakers have holes in them and—I may be imagining this—I think my hair is starting to get a little thin in front. (I hope I’m imagining this; with a head shaped like mine, the best thing you can hope for is to cover it with hair.)

In short, I’m no longer cool, not by anyone’s standard.

Usually, this does not bother me. I am, after all, over 50 and as such I’m entitled to be as uncool as I want to be. I haven’t started wearing white shoes and plaid pants yet, but when I decide I want to, I’ll do it without the slightest twinge of embarrassment.

The beauty part of getting old is you’re able to be a walking middle finger to the rest of the world, someone who says, with every fashion faux pas and dinner eaten at 4:30 in the afternoon, “I’m old and I no longer care what you think, sonny! I got bigger things to worry about, like Social Security and kids running across my lawn!”

Still, some small part of me longs for the red sports car days, when young ladies swooned when I walked into the room and captains of industry came to me for advice on selecting presidential candidates. (OK, it’s remotely possible my memory isn’t entirely accurate on this topic. Let an old man have his delusions, will ya!)

But like I said, I still sometimes miss being cool. The transition from cool to uncool happened so gradually I sometimes forget it has taken place at all. Then I find myself doing something so momentously uncool that even I can’t ignore it.

Like playing Scrabble. On a Friday night. In a bar with a live band playing in the background and kids half my age hopping around on the dance floor like Whack-a-mole puppets.

My Sweet Annie and I both love Scrabble. We both like greasy bar food. We both like music. We both (OK, me) like beer. At some point we decided to combine our favorite pastimes and maximize our fun.

So we play Scrabble in a crowded tavern. I tip well, so the management and waitstaff don’t mind.

We look like nerds and I’m sure I sometimes see the kiddies on the dance floor sniggering behind their hands, but I don’t care. We’re having fun, and at our age, that’s more important than being cool.

Dude.

More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.