Twice I’ve noticed friends write a “RIP (dead relative)” on the anniversary of the deceased’s exit from the earth. I suppose it’s more of a cry for support and sympathy than an actual cyber-message to the no longer living. But does it cheapen the sorrow for or love of a lost relative? Or does the soul exit the Earth as electronically processed kilobytes with a golden key to a wireless paradise. (You’d also have to accept the afterlife as well as Eye of Providence, but perchance, maybe you do.)

We open ourselves up on the Internet and to some people nothing is sacred, or the sacred is meant to be shared, in 140 characters.

In a way, this particular little leaf of the federal government is like a microcosm for everything feckless. About 70-100 people are in flux throughout the washed out beige waiting room. The chairs are metal, cold and as inhospitable as satan’s asshole. I do agree with a fellow patron-poverty-saint-in-waiting that they should install armchair recliners. If the whole system of accessing public assistance is slow and encourages immobility, why not tack on a visual, symbolic Archie Bunkerness to the whole process?

At least we’d be comfortable as we watched the black screen of the broken TV.

Aside from the chairs, the scavenger hunt I had to partake in just to get my appointment was this:
1. Pick up application from location A.
2. Fill out application and drop it off at location B (some 25+ miles in the other direction)
3. At drop off location, be assigned appointment at location C (some 35+ miles, again, in the other direction)

The application, for my particular purposes, does it even get read or is it just an indicator that I’ve passed the first test of eligibility? If it was read, why, when I was in the office today would I have to rewrite and duplicate information off my application onto another form?

Just a formality. In a completely informal setting. Yes, I was one of the mothers with screaming child; thankfully, my babe held out until we were granted access to the interior ant farm of employees, and his crying actually increased the working speed of our case worker.

And I have nothing against the case workers because the three I interfaced with were doing a wonderful job in the short-fused environment in which they work. But I find it interesting I have been dehumanized into a case and not a person, as prisoners lose their names to numbers.

If you’ve never been processed before, you should be.

By not attending, I’m saving $50 and sore facial muscles from fabricated smiles. And are there any meaningful connections made at reunions? I imagine it’s a lot of “Say, we should get together some day. Are you on Facebook/Myspace/Twitter/etc./?”

A few points to make in favor of not going. My only reason for attending is my vain curiosity toward how people look x amount of years after graduation–shallow, I know, but why else do people look at photos of former classmates on the Web?

Perhaps before the social media/networking craze more people attended reunions. At that time, if you were desperate for contact with someone you lost touch with, you had to pick up a phone book and pray, or phone his or her parents’ home. Stalkerish? Slightly.

Either way, on the Web or in person, you’re still sticking your hide out there for acceptance. (Add me as a friend?)

Still, I might want to see how it all goes down. And I will.

When I see the photos posted on Facebook.

My e-mail address even reflects my immaturity at that time (what I thought to be a creative combination of my zodiac sign, birthday and misspelled signifier of girl). I’m not sure why I’ve kept this account for so long. I’ve probably used it for years because it has served as a dumping spot for any untrusted Web sites’ requests for information, mass e-mail chains I care not to read or if I wanted to sign up for the Journal of American Medicine.

Lately, I’ve been unable to access my e-mail account, which is unfortunate because for once I actually do need something from my inbox. The wonderful team at Excite decided to upgrade users’ e-mail systems to the most non-user-friendly, bastardization of e-mail accounts in recent history. And I’m not the only boo-wisher chanting “U Suck Excite.” (The Excite Mail System Still Sucks). Much to my dismay, it looks like they are doing another upgrade, which is probably the reason I cannot access my e-mail over the last six months.

It may be time to move on and leave behind old, feckless ties. Good riddance excite. Blessed art myself to focus on my other four e-mail accounts.

And they could use rebar as ski poles because the mountain they’d be careening down is the Brookhaven Landfill.

On a recent Saturday morning, cars stretched for miles to gain entrance into the dump to deposit backyard swingsets, used plywood and other refuse because it’s easier to hang out in a parked car on a Saturday morning than imagine ways those items could be repurposed for someone or something else.

Not all the items will reach the monster pile. Brookhaven Landfill appears to be making many steps forward in recycling, even holding an Objects de Garbage Contest in which participants are encouraged to get artistic with their toss aways.

But with Craigslist and thrift stores, why won’t people avoid the trash train?

Driving through local neighborhoods, people leave items out by their garbage bins all the time. It’s the lazy way of trade; no picture taking, posting, or dropping at the thrift store. Sometimes it takes two or three passes of the trash collector to claim these items. Thank goodness for the spendthrift scavengers who descend and rescue an item from ending up in Mt. Stinkamanjaro.

Living on Kauai — an island importing 90 percent of its food — the recycling excitement was fervent or even if it was just to get the redemption price on the bottle for more beer, very prevalent.

Here in New York, some 3,o00 miles away, where we have curbside recycling pickup, is the sentiment not the same? Is it still a throwaway society in Suffolk County?