From Threat Level:

The next time someone tries to “friend” you on Facebook, it may turn out to be an undercover fed looking to examine your private messages and photos, or surveil your friends and family. The Electronic Frontier Foundation has obtained an internal Justice Department document that describes what law enforcement is doing on social networking sites.

The 33-page document shows that law enforcement agents from local police to the FBI and Secret Service have been logging on to MySpace and other sites undercover to communicate with suspects, read private postings and view photos and videos that are restricted to a user’s friends, according to the Associated Press.

It pays to know who your friends are. Or, I don’t know-maybe don’t leave so much information about your life just lying around on the hard drives of companies that don’t give two shits about you, yeah?

As we were talking, I mentioned that I was looking for a book that (thanks to the Internet) I knew was only available in a store that was about an hour’s drive from where we were sitting. Of course, I casually admitted, actually going and picking it up would represent a huge waste of time, gas, and money. But still.

Neither one of us really felt like going back to our respective homes, or finishing up the mundane chores that awaited us there. Nor did we particularly want to acknowledge the resumption of humdrum responsibility that tomorrow would bring, and the baleful shadow that sort of thing inevitably casts on the last day of any period spent away from work. Fuck tomorrow. It was that kind of day. So we got in the car and started to drive.

That was nostalgia trip number one. It has been so long since I spent that much effort, or traveled that far, in an attempt to satisfy a nagging acquisitive urge. I couldn’t tell you the last time that sort of thing happened. I could tell you about the first time, though, when I used to ride my bike across town to buy issues of Dragon magazine. But–some other time, perhaps.

As it happens, this particular book store was in an area I haven’t visited since I lived practically next-door to it. And I didn’t only live there; I worked a mere stone’s throw away, too. It was the old stomping grounds of my early twenties, when I could think of the future as something that wasn’t horrifying.

Nostalgia trip number two: The old stomping grounds.

The old home turf changes, like everything else. Outside, many of the businesses I knew had changed, of course–but so had I. The old neighborhood looks different when you’re no longer invested in it. It felt crowded and tatty. Jumped-up and sad.

I’m impossible to be around, when I start talking about things like that. But, inside my own head it was an interesting to find myself so off-kilter, even if such wobbling was brought about by just another apartment building, just another commercial center, just another office park. Especially moving was the knowledge that the younger version of me, whose ghost I was seeing out of the corner of my eye in all these places, would happily stab this sort of sentimentality in the neck. All that’s left of him, however, is the fact that I’m not at all proud about these feelings.

Nostalgia trip number three: The book.

Of course, I didn’t go back to get all maudlin and reflective. I was after a book–a normal, average, every day sort of book that I could have bought online for less money than I was willing to spend on it. Now, as it happened, it was the latest book in an ongoing series that I had fallen in love with back in junior high school. Unlike a lot of the things I was into back then, I’ve managed to keep my interest in this one.

It’s almost too much: To go back to an old neighborhood, in a long abandoned method of pursuit, to buy a book that is a sequel to a beloved artifact of my childhood–I tell you, if it hadn’t been such a nice day, and if the company hadn’t been so amenable, it never would have happened.

Some days are just like that.

Private individuals have more freedom, generally because their mistakes are often small-time, at best. On the domestic level, and when dealing with errors that result in nothing more than a minor inconvenience, a person has a lot of options when it comes to admitting fault. They could deny everything, or cover their tracks—thus the world will never know which family member left the toilet seat up, or tracked mud into the kitchen. Or, they could own up—knowing that the consequences will be light, or last only a short while. The most irritating response, however, is when a big, flashy admission of fault is brought to bear on the tiniest of offenses.

This usually has to do with the fact that the person making such a big deal about making a mistake is attempting to do it in such a self-aggrandizing way. “There’s no doubt about it, yup I made a mistake. I can admit when I’m wrong, you know—when I blow it, I’m not going to try to make excuses. I did it, and there’s no getting around it, yes indeed.” Yes, a Foghorn Leghorn rant is surely the appropriate response to forgetting to change the toilet paper roll and you certainly deserve a cookie for being so honest about your blunder!

There’s a particular personality type that seems especially prone to the occasional bombastic admission of meager mistakes. These folks tend to live in a constant, rotating circle of blame; a place where things keep going wrong all the time, and it’s always somebody’s fault, and it’s their job to remind those idiots that they really need to do better, next time.

When one of these Blamer makes a huge mistake, they desperately fling the responsibility outward. But of course, they know that nobody’s perfect, they know that a person who never seems to be responsible for anything that’s gone wrong is suspicious—and, of course they’re also highly motivated to prove that they’re not the sort of person who is always looking for scapegoats.

So, it becomes vitally important for them to prove that they can take responsibility for their own mistakes. Which is why they latch on to low-cost errors that nobody really cares about, and why they make such a huge deal about them, because–wow! If that’s how he reacts when he forgets to unload the dishwasher, imagine how sorry he’d be if he did something really bad!

The thing is though, the kind of person who owns up to tiny mistakes in such a grandiose way is a lot like the guy who does the least work when helping someone move: “You guys grab that sofa—don’t worry, I’ll get those cushions for you!” Instead of always somehow managing to avoid the heaviest physical burdens, the Blamer always manages to avoid the weightiest part of the responsibility when something goes wrong.

That’s not the problem, though.

The problem is that the Blamer only does the big-deal owning up in order to justify their efforts to assign blame to others, to find fault with others, to nail down once and for all why their plans are always failing, why their desires are always frustrated, and why they can’t seem to get anything important done. And things never ever just happen by themselves, in the Blamer’s world. There’s no such thing as an unavoidable error. They are the Quincy, M.E.’s of personal interactions: It’s never an accident—it’s always murder. In the confines of a private home, this kind of personality-type is destructive enough; but, in an office setting, people’s livelihoods are at stake.

So, let the grandiose mea culpa over nothing serve as a warning. If you encounter someone who makes a big deal about their own little mistakes, do yourself a favor and keep your distance.

When a plate of pancakes are put in front of me, I can’t not finish them. I don’t know why — I’ve abandoned other meals, why should pancakes be any different? Something about them represents a challenge, perhaps. Or, maybe it has something to do with the fact that you can’t take them home in a doggy-bag, because leftover, unfinished pancakes are disgusting.

This shit is going to kill me, eventually. It’s certainly not doing much for my social relationships, because nothing ruins a good time at breakfast quite like witnessing a man’s grueling struggle against a quick bread. I almost always manage to pack away the last few bites — but at what cost? The end result is a grim thing to witness. Also, bloating.

Of all the things to approach with grit and determination, pancakes are probably the stupidest. And yet, no matter how many times I tell myself, “next time I’ll just get some eggs,” I always blow it.

Maybe I need to take baby steps; perhaps I should just switch to waffles, at first.

So, after only a little culling, here’s some random crap.

• As part of my job, I often have to speak to people from other parts of the country over the phone. They always says something like, “Oh, California… how’s the weather out there? I bet it’s wonderful.” For some reason, even now, when it’s been raining for three days, and the forecast says that it will continue to do so for… well, forever as near as I can tell, I always say, “It’s fine.” Partly because no one is willing to tolerate any complaints, but also because I don’t want to shatter their illusion that Sacramento is in southern California. “Yes!” I want to tell them, “I am not surrounded by rain, mud, and rednecks! Rather, I am amidst palm trees, sunshine, and narcissists!”

• Have you ever been struck by a topic in such a way that you develop a sudden urge to talk about it at length with someone? Like, for hours and hours on end? Maybe you have a strong opinion, or you don’t know what your opinion is and you want to work it out, or something? The Internet is dangerous for people in that kind of mood, but it’s better to let folks fall down that rabbit-hole than it is to allow them to be extra boring in real life, right? Or is that how conspiracy theories get started?

• I may have housemates, but I am quite alone, really. I think it’s okay; I don’t mind being alone at all, most of the time. Except, when I found myself eating Rolos for breakfast (mmm, dip them in your coffee) this morning, I had to level with myself: Maybe I need someone to stop me from doing that. Of course, whenever someone suggests that I should change my behavior in any way, I become defensive and hurtful. So, I guess it’s fine. It would be nice to have someone around to eventually sign the commitment papers, though.

These screeds can be broken down into several basic categories, my favorite of which are those penned by old-media types. I am a great fan of rhetorical contortions, and seeing an essay whose thesis is “I am deeply concerned about my income, but it would be crass to say so–so instead let’s pretend that the insecurity of my career is, in fact, the first step towards the fall of civilization” without actually saying so … well, that’s often pure gold.

This being the internet, you might assume that I’m being sarcastic, but I’m actually not. The impassioned eloquence of people who write for a living, stepping up to defend that way of life, has produced some incredibly interesting work–whether I agree with it or not doesn’t change that.  (Though, as I’ve said again and again, I quite like people who write for a living, generally, and I want them to be well-paid and happy.)

What I really hate are the sort of articles or postings that presume that people who focus most of their attention on the internet have anything better they could be doing with their time. In most cases, I believe these self-appointed time management experts are really just using whatever bankrupt strategies of argument they can think of to try to get their online tormentors to shut up and go away. Because, if we’re honest, does anyone actually think that it’s true?

The internet has joined the ranks of the other, older forms of trash culture that have always irritated the serious-minded. But those ancestors of our current intellectual junk-food choices haven’t gone away, just because there’s a new time-wasting sin in town; they’re still out there, biding their time, waiting to comfort those who want to be amused, but whose computers are down.

If it were possible to kick everyone off of Facebook and Twitter, and all the rest, what do you suppose they’d do? Head to the library? Join political or social organizations? Maybe a few might go that route, but the vast majority would just start to watch more television. Or, maybe you could encourage them to read more books? Okay, but the odds are good that they wouldn’t be turning to Noam Chomsky, Ayn Rand, or the Bible, en masse–instead, you’d have a run on stuff like The Da Vinci Code, or the Twilight  books.

Basically, what it comes down to is this: All the complaints over the fact that people are prefer to waste their time using the internet, or reading crap about celebrities, or playing Guitar Hero, or tweeting about their cats–instead of doing something more constructive–come down to one, overarching grievance. What the complainers really seem to dislike is frivolity.

And there’s nothing really wrong with that. Silliness is, like everything else, best used in moderation. A life focused on nothing but frivolous amusement is a sure path to self-destruction, unless you’re a pampered, well-off descendant of a remarkably tolerant and protective family (and even then…). We sometimes need to be reminded that too much fun is bad for us.

On the other hand, you can go too far in that direction. Let’s face it: Life for a lot of people is pretty grim. Our family lives are uncomfortable, our work lives are precarious, our financial situations are dire, our hobbies are expensive, and, as we get older, weird things start happening to our bodies that may or may not be the first flowerings of conditions our health insurance plans won’t cover.

Now, in the face of all that, you could choose to come home every night and practice your guitar-playing skills, putting hours of hard work to hone your craft in dour isolation–or, you could fiddle with some brightly colored plastic buttons while you pretend that you’re in Cheap Trick, and dance around your living room like a silly person. Sure, eventually you’ll have to make dinner, wash the dishes, make sure you’ve got clothes to wear for tomorrow, and write out your bills; but, there’s no shame in goofing off for a half-hour first, is there?

If you give up on something meaningful, all it can do is make you feel like a shitty failure. But giving up on some ridiculous amusement feels great. The best moment of my life was looking intently at the expert setting on Guitar Hero for minute, only to suddenly declare, “Fuck it!” and find something else to do. Okay, let’s say you develop some skill in some frivolous, meaningless area; if you’re a grown-up, you can do what you like, you got good at something because it was fun–and if it turns out not to be fun, well, you could have quit without the threat of consequences. Name any serious thing in life that you can give up as joyfully. Not your job, if you want to pay your rent; not paying your bills, if you want heat or water; not even brushing your teeth, if you don’t want to avoid serious oral pain and possible brain-infections.

It is a mistake to presume that everyone with a goofy hobby should find something useful to replace it. It might not even be desirable to wish for such a thing. Imagine a world of committed, engaged, informed, activists. Suddenly, we’d be a world in which everyone thinks they’ve got a good idea, and they’d want to be heard. The meetings would take weeks to get through. The vegetable trays would run out. The carpet would be ruined. And I don’t think I have enough chairs for everybody.

I guess what I’m saying is this: Cut out the petulant pleas for people to give up the Farmville or the forum posting, huh? First: That kind of thing doesn’t win arguments. Second: You can’t cut off someone’s garbage allowance and expect them to fill the void left behind with Proust, or calculus.

Or, go on doing what you’re doing. It’s your life, and it’s your time to waste. Do what you want.

I wish you all the best in the upcoming year. May 2010 be the best year yet!