January 7, 2010 | 
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Remember analogies? The fun verbal puzzles pairing unlikely teams of thought? Like: “dollar is todime as mujahadeen is to___________.” Analogies were a peculiar type of academic torture required for acing the SAT, and in high school we learned how to find threads of cohesion within them, no matter how tattered or frayed. Whether becoming an analogy whiz lead directly to early admission at Brown remains a matter of some dispute, but practice with this sort of thinking tended to adhere to the walls of a developing brain like napalm, which explains the analogy that popped unbidden into my mind—decades past my last practical experience with one—just the other day: Facebook is to technology as liver is to dinner.
May I explain?
With five daughters in the house, my mother had a thing for liver. She clung faithfully to the idea that the eating of liver was essential to the developing body of an adolescent girl, though her “data” was mostly anecdotal. She prepared it, on average, once a month, fouling the entire airspace of our fairly large house. I’d be upstairs suffering geometry when the unmistakable stench of frying liver would begin to rise through the vents, and lickety-split I’d be on the phone begging friends for an emergency invite. It never worked, of course. Liver Night for us was like Game Night for normal families. It was sacrosanct.
When the diner bell rang, we’d come cautiously to the table, staying low to avoid the fumes. All five of us hated it, devising various ways to choke the stuff down, but I in particular despised the stuff. Aroma, taste, texture: all bad. Truly and sincerely, I simply could not abide it, and one night, I threw my gauntlet down.
“I can’t eat this stuff any more,” I said, sliding the plate away. “Sorry.”
Dad straightened in his chair, squinting my way with a bemused expression. “Come again?” he said mildly, laying his fork and knife neatly down.
“It’s gross! I can’t stand it! Please, don’t make me eat this stuff anymore! I just can’t do it.”
“Oh, you’ll eat it, young lady,” he said, smiling, as my four sisters ducked their heads low. “You’ll eat what’s put in front of you, and you’ll like it.” The rest of the meal was silent, except for the gentle gagging sounds of my siblings as they worked their way through their portions. I folded my arms, leaned back in my chair, and prepared to wait it out.
The table was cleared, and I waited. Dishes were done, and I waited. Pajamas were put on, faces were washed, teeth were brushed and I waited, alone at the table with a congealing hunk of purpled flesh. By midnight the house had gone quiet, and still I sat. Finally Dad marched from his bedroom, a scowl marring his handsome face. “You’ve won the battle, but you won’t win the war, missy. You’re on dishes for the rest of the month.”
“Solid!” I said, leaping happily to my feet. I never ate liver again.
So, Facebook. Of all techology’s myriad marvels, Facebook is the mutant aberration. For those of us over thirty, what’s the point? The weird use of third person (Kate Williams is a fan of panini!), the non-sequetorial flow of exchange, and—worst of all—the resurfacing of individuals whom you’ve managed to successfully avoid year after happy year. There they are, “friending” you. Darius, conservative Republican fundamentalist Christian who digs Limbaugh, and Ester, supper! peppy! cup-half-full! user of excessively exuberant punctuation, back in your circle, sharing the inanities of day to day living. Swept along in the fast-moving current of technological innovation, I joined Facebook because I thought I had to; but now I want out, and I’m willing to wait.
