Everybody Poops.

Disclaimer: If you consider bathroom humor to be crude, unfunny and/or inappropriate, stop reading now. Also, you should probably unfriend me.

If you (the reader) and I have had even of modicum of depth to our relationship, you know that I'm not one to shy away from talking about poop. My poop, your poop, dog poop, the unflushed poop in the locker room toilet... the list goes on. It's a major part of my day and yours too, even if you don't want to admit it. 

Pooping is an essential part of life that for reasons beyond my comprehension has been denounced as inappropriate for civil conversation. But it's one of the few things every single person on the planet has in common (except maybe the anusless contributing writers at The New Yorker), and that's pretty darn special. Still not convinced? What if I told you there's an immortal epic in the English Literary Canon that proves it so? You can find it in most major bookstores; it's called Everybody Poops by literary genius Taro Gomi.

I'd like to take a moment write about some of the more notable poops that make an appearance in all of our lives from time to time:

The Phantom Poop

There you are, sitting on the toilet waiting in anxious anticipation for your bowels to move, and eureka--mission accomplished. But then you go to wipe and, inexplicably, the paper's as snow-white as a cartoon baby lamb. It cannot be so. You stand up to visually admire your hard-fought-for poop in all its glory but lo and behold, there's no trace of even a fecal molecule in the toilet. Perfect anus-to-toilet hole positioning has made this one a direct shot to depths unknown. This, my friends, is The Phantom Poop. Classified in the "unsatisfying" genus, The Phantom Poop robs from you any sense of achievement and validation defecation usually brings. It leaves you unsettled. You know you pooped. You felt the evacuation. Yet, nothing. It makes you question your sanity.

Hidden Bonus: After a true Phantom Poop, you don't have to flush! At least you can reap satisfaction from saving water, you hippie conservationist, you.

The Defies the Laws of Physics Poop

This one inspires utter awe and amazement. Most of us took geometry in high school, and all of us learned about shapes in earlier grades. We all know our rectums are more or less cylindrical, which lead in a straight line to a circular anus before their contents see daylight. Therefore, most of our poops are formed as straight lines. But sometimes, in the aftermath, we look down into the porcelain throne and gasp when we see an unnatural, though impressive, shape. Introducing: The Defies the Laws of Physics Poop. These are your right-angle poops, your corkscrew poops, your (this truly happened to me the week before the 2011 Cal Soccer Alumni Game) BIG C poop. 'Twas a perfect C. (Go bears). These are the poops you take photos of and send to your friends, the ones you can't wait to brag about.

The Anaconda Poop

Also known as the "How Did THAT Come Out of Me Poop," this one brings into question the sheer length and girth of your innards. This is the poop you imagine only comes out of 6'6, 345 lb Russian men. It can take various forms, from disappearing God-knows-how-far down the hole and reaching up to breach the water, to encircling the entire circumference of the bowl at least once--like a brown snake ready to strike. The Anaconda Poop is awe-inspiring in its own rite, as you're surprised every time that your waste pipes can contain that much matter without causing you discomfort, let alone produce something of that size that can externally hold its shape postpoopartum (see what I did there?).

The Lincoln Logs Poop

A first cousin of The Anaconda Poop, The Lincoln Logs Poop is also impressive in terms of size, but its real noteworthiness is derived from its manufacturing. Instead of keeping its length in tact, this poop somehow knows at what points to pinch itself off and restart in exact position to its forebears. The Lincoln Logs Poop is an architectural masterpiece, solely orchestrated by a seemingly unintelligent anus, laying down the pinched parts like a master lumberjack lining up cut logs to build a beautiful cabin. 

The Part One Poop

Another poop in the "unsatisfying" genus, this little rascal leaves you wanting--nay, needing--more. After you expel The Part One Poop, you know that's not the end of it. The fat lady hath not sung and you feel incomplete. You know in your heart of hearts there's more in there--The Part Two Poop and beyond. Its uncertain nature leaves you feeling vulnerable and insecure. How can you go on with your day with the uneasy feeling of that incomplete poop in the later stages of your intestines, poised to release at any spontaneous moment (or even worse, remain there). The Part One Poop is most unpleasant.

The Sheer Perfection Poop

This is the poop that can make your entire day, and sometimes week. The Sheer Perfection Poop happens when a heavenly choir of angels descends from the sky to your bathroom, occupies your intestines and ever-so-sweetly sings an impeccable G chord to coax a flawless fecal specimen into your toilet. We all dream of such a poop, and wish it would grace us with its presence less sporadically. The Sheer Perfection Poop is like the orgasm of the pooping world, releasing endorphin-y shivers throughout your entire body and making you feel like you have the power to conquer the universe. One does not quickly forget the experience of The Sheer Perfection Poop, as its aura lingers around you the entire day, like a blessed halo spreading its joy into everything you do and everyone you interact with. Nothing can spoil a day that begins with The Sheer Perfection Poop.


Got any poops you'd like to share? I'd love to hear about them!

A Long December

"A long December and there's reason to believe, maybe this year will be better than the last." -Counting Crows

A Long December came on my ever-shuffling iPod as I drove away from a friend's house this afternoon, befittingly because I had just told her that writing more blog posts was one of my New Year's Intentions. Even more appropriate because I had already decided what I was going to write about: Hope and New Year's Intentions.

Five years ago, I wrote this: You Say You Want a ReSolution?

With all the learned lessons, shifted mindsets and reality checks I've undergone in the last five years, my outlook on this subject has taken a complete 180. Well, maybe more like a 170; I did write five years ago that I'm all for anyone trying to better themselves, any time of year. And I still believe that.

I suppose five years ago life was easier and less complicated. I was a grad student in Boston, whose life until that point had been very happy-go-lucky, and whose remaining years were full of nothing but promise. I hadn't developed a sense of empathy yet, and that blinded me to a lot of ways people felt treated by the world. I hadn't realized that as you get older, and life starts knocking you around a bit, sometimes you need a finite marker to hit a reset button and hope for something better. And a new year seems like a good time to do just that.

Without going into too much detail, 2015 was the worst year of my life until this point (still not saying much, I've had a very charmed life). But the last year was extremely trying nonetheless; I was shaken to my core. So, for the first time in my 27 years, I was really looking forward to the year being over, and the promise of 2016 for a clean slate. I made my New Year's Intentions and I had hope.

You've probably noticed by this point that I don't use the words "resolution" or "resolutions", I call them New Year's "Intentions." I believe the word "resolution" is too, well, resolute. It suggests that you must resolve to do this thing, and if you mess up even once, you've failed. And often times when you believe you've failed at something, you give it up; it becomes a lost cause. 

"Intention" takes that pressure off. It doesn't carry the same connotation of finality. You can fail over and over again at an intention, and it will remain just that: something you intend to do. So, I don't have New Year's Resolutions, I have New Year's Intentions. And even if I fail over and over at them throughout the year, I will still intend to accomplish them until December 31.

A new year brings hope, and in 2015 I personally learned how powerful hope is. Hope is the only thing that gets many out of bed in the morning, the only thing that convinces those who are suffering to hold on for another hour, another day, another month... It will get better. At its core, that's what hope is: The belief that it will get better. Even the most stalwart atheist can't argue with 1 Corinthians 13:13, naming the most powerful trinity of forces in a human being: Faith, Hope and Love. 

The greatest may be Love, but Faith and Hope are not far behind.

Here's to hoping in 2016.

A Thanksgiving Reality Check

The following post was an email I got from my mom last week. She volunteers at a local food bank. It gave me all the feels, so I thought I'd share--


Sometimes my days at the food bank are very humbling. 

All of our clients who come in for food have stories, but when people pass them on the streets, most just walk a little faster and turn away to avoid them. When they come into the food bank week after week, a face in the crowd becomes a real person-- with a name and a story. Many will open up to you, and you get to know what some of them are going through and how one tiny little act of kindness can make their day.

Janice lives in her car. She ALWAYS politely asks me if she can use the bathroom to wash up, and she always asks how I'm doing.

Frank sits on a bench out in front and immediately eats what we give him, because he's so hungry. He has no plate-- just a plastic fork and a can of cold soup or beans. Yet he smiles at me every time I say, "How are you, Frank?" 

Darrell stands by the door and when we have items that people don't want from their carts, he asks if he can please have them. I always give him whatever he wants, I don't care if it's against the rules.

Barbara hides in the bushes and waits until the place clears out before she comes in for her food. She is very nervous and afraid of men, and always asks for extra soap. I think she might have been sexually abused.

Every week one of us goes in the back warehouse and sneaks Sam an extra loaf of "wheat bread" because he likes it so much. Big deal, it's stale anyway. He has diabetes and can barely walk on his swollen feet.

Charlie always asks if we have any sardines. We always make sure we have a stack of crackers to give him, too.

Victor loves peaches IN HEAVY SYRUP, so one of us buys a can of those for him every week.

Charlene is SO happy when she gets six eggs. We don't always have enough cartons, and that's why I collect them from everyone I know. Stores donate the eggs in cartons with broken eggs in them; we sort out the good eggs and need clean cartons to put them in so we can give them to people.

Debbie has to work swing shift in a vitamin factory because her husband lost his job after 22 years as a chef at a country club. She stinks like fish oil and apologizes. They have six kids. She barely makes it before we close, so I stay a little later for her so she can get her food. If the traffic is bad, she will miss the distribution time if I don't.

Sometimes, if it's a week they aren't supposed to get meat, they will cry. (Only one week a month is a meat week for each family.)

And sometimes the new clients cry when they see how much food we're giving them. They will say, "ALL OF THIS IS FOR ME?! REALLY?!"

I am told "God Bless You" 50 times a day.

This stuff goes on every time I work there.

But yesterday, a lady named Shirley came in. She's kind of latched onto me for a friendly ear. She's a white woman, about 45 if I were to guess her age. She has kids, and she has a husband. Someone from the food bank handed her a paper to sign in front of me. She sold her car to someone there for $375. I was just making small talk with her as I helped her out with her food, and I asked her how her Halloween was. She said, "It wasn't good. I didn't have the money to buy any candy this year, so I turned off my lights and just peeked out my window at the kids. I just wasn't able to buy any candy for them."

Shirley said they have to be out of their house in 17 days. They had to sell their house, they can't afford to keep it; it's in Sierra Madre. They're taking their equity and renting a place half the size. Her husband lost his job after 15 years, even though he got commendations for good sales. He was so embarrassed by it that he couldn't even tell her. Someone's brother in his company needed a job, so they let her husband go. Shirley had been planning an 80th birthday party for her mom when it happened. She said she spent $600 on the party, not knowing how much they would need that money. She told me, "I wish he would have told me. I spent money we needed. I just didn't know." 

One day, she found a movie ticket stub in her husband's pocket. It was for a day he was supposed to be working. She thought he was having an affair, but he wasn't. He just couldn't bring himself to tell her he lost his job when she was happily planning her mom's party.  

Shirley's rationing their remaining money until they move. She told me she can't afford to go to the grocery store. The ONLY way they eat is the food the food bank gives them. One son needs surgery and he was in so much pain they had to go on the husband's COBRA for a month or two so he could be treated immediately-- Medi-Cal takes too long to get processed. So that's more money they have to spend.  

After she told me all of this, she said, "But you know, I see other people inside this place that are in much worse shape than I am, so I am thankful that we will still have a roof over our heads. A lot of these people don't."

Then she said, "I will see you next week because if I don't come here, we'll have nothing to eat." And she left.

It kind of just leaves you speechless sometimes.  And very thankful.

Thank you for being a friend

Relationships are the foundation of life (I know half of you wisenheimers reading this just thought, "No, it's water!" or "No, it's carbon!". Chill out, you're right too). Relationships determine not only how you interact with other living beings, but with every tangible object and abstract idea in existence. There are the relationships you have with others—your spouse or lover, your parents, your friends, your coworkers, your God etc.—and there are the less obvious relationships about which you seldom think; with nature, food, politics, sirens, the plot to Shawshank Redemption, your car, confidence, the ground upon which you walk and the air you breathe. Your entire being is in relation to everything.

So when anyone asks what in life is most important to me, the answer is obvious: Relationships.

Since the day I turned eighteen, I've never lived in any one city for more than four years. Berkeley, Boston and San Diego were home for short periods of time, and Pensacola is it for the next few years—until it's time to pack up and move on once again. Transience isn't rare for someone my age in today's culture. But when it comes to relationships, with each move and with each mile and with each passing day comes the separation and imminent dissolution of one of the most important forms a relationship can take: Friendships. And then comes the need to make new ones.

Remember when you were in elementary school and making a friend was literally as easy as walking up to anyone on the playground and saying, "Will you be my friend?" Boom. That was that. Friend made. You played with them for the rest of recess, sat with them at lunch, got their phone number and called them on the weekend to see if they wanted to come over and play. There were no self-constructed emotional walls, no social anxiety, no pride fueled by the fear of rejection... all of which lead to inaction, and opportunities missed.

Even through college making friends was pretty much that easy (alcohol helped, too, by that point). You were surrounded by thousands of like-aged and like-minded people in the same phase of life in one concentrated area; you were in the trenches together, spurring the formation of inevitable comraderies.

Then we became adults, and making new friends got hard.

With every move and every year that ticks off the calendar, sparking new friendships gets exponentially more difficult. I'm not talking about acquaintances—those are easy. I can be friendly with just about anyone. I'm talking about deep, meaningful friendships.

I half-joked with my best friend (since age 5) before moving to Pensacola this summer that I was going to revert back to my elementary school mindset and just ask people, "Will you be my friend?" To me, that's the hardest part about moving, having to downgrade great friendships to random texts and monthly-ish phone calls. With each new move, you have to start from scratch in trying to find awesome people to reattain invaluable, first-degree, in-person friendships. And even if you do meet someone with that potential, you can't just ask "Will you be my friend?", because now you're an adult, and adults don't do that. Adults are guarded. Adults have developed a fear of rejection. Adults are paralyzed by pride. Adults are too busy with their own, already-established lives. Other adults don't have time for new friends. These are the thoughts that creep into our minds now. And it sucks. Because I, for one, would love if another adult asked me to be their friend.

So why can't most of us do that?

I guess the reason for this blog post (other than the fact that I will find any excuse to sneak a Golden Girls allusion into something) is that lately I've been reflecting a lot on all the great friendships I've made throughout the years, and am being impatient about making more where I am now. Relationships are the most important thing to me, and currently there is a gaping lack of in-person friendships. I haven't yet mentioned that they always come along: these deep, meaningful friendships. Eventually. And I may have even begun the process of making a few in my current hometown. But the time I spend waiting for them to develop seems indefinite.

Anyway, to all in my past, present, and future—Thank you for being a friend.

Sorry, had to.

First Impressions of the Panhandle

Three and a half weeks ago, Grant and I moved to the South. The Florida Panhandle, to be exact -- 10 miles from Alabama, 254 miles from the nearest Trader Joe's, and a world away from home.

Three and a half weeks is a relatively short period of time, but in those 24 days I've already made some interesting observations about our new region.

1. Menu items can be misleading

Before we moved here, I had already accepted the fact that going out to eat was going to be a bit different than in California. Everything would be fried, grits would be a side option, and key lime pie would be abundant. 

But I thought I'd be safe with salad. Salads are standard fare and pretty much universally understood. Imagine my surprise upon ordering multiple salads at multiple restaurants and discovering that "mixed greens" down here means "shredded iceberg." There was ne'er so much as a spinach, arugula or romaine leaf in sight. Beware the salads.


2. This is the Bible Belt

For 27 years, when I thought of Florida I imagined palm trees, white sandy beaches, Disney World, and cute, old, linen-clad Jewish people muttering Yiddish phrases like "meshuganah." Unbeknownst to me, there were parts of Florida closer to Alabama and Mississippi than Miami. Florida is actually a humongous state -- it would take us 10 hours to drive to the Everglades.

After moving here and taking a closer look at the map, I discovered the Panhandle was actually part of the Bible Belt, and lives up to everything that implies. You can't buy alcohol on Sundays in the next county. Grant's base is in Milton, Florida, which has 172 churches for a population of 9,323. That works out to one church for every ~54 people.

And as astounding as that figure is, there are even more preachers than churches. Every Sunday, the street corners are littered with people like this:

Some are shouting verses, some are speaking in tongues, some are holding graphic signs -- and all are trying to save you. In a town with one church for every 54 people, that seems a little like trying to sell ice to Eskimos. But that's just one concentrated town in the Pensacola region. Some people are spiritual in different ways.

3. ...but not everyone is Christian

There are also a lot of Wiccans, Pagans and other unconventional religions represented. A few weeks ago, Pensacola made national news when three family members offed themselves in a Wiccan ritual killing, right here in our county. Which leads me to my next observation.

4. The first thing you think when you see Florida news is WTF

I'm going to issue you a challenge: Every time you open your Facebook page, take a gander at the "trending" topics on the right side of your newsfeed. Every time you see a bizarre, non-Hollywood news story, investigate a little further and find out where the story took place. It's uncanny how often the answer will be Florida.

When I found out we were moving to Florida, a friend (Hi, Bsayl!) and I started sending each other all the weird news stories we'd see coming out of Florida (you know, to get pumped). Here's a small sampling:

• See #3 above
• Armadillos cause spike in leprosy cases in Florida
• Second-largest python ever caught in Everglades
• Massive Florida sinkhole that swallowed man reopens
• Click here for more, like:
• "Ft. Lauderdale man tries to sell live 5-foot nurse shark outside Publix"
• "Palm Beach County investigators find a bowling ball filled with gunpowder connected to long rope used as a wick, like something straight out of a cartoon"
• "Man killed in Panama City Beach after an argument over how much spice to put into a gumbo at a seafood restaurant"

5. There's wildlife everywhere

Especially mosquitoes. Lots and lots of mosquitoes. Lots of mosquitoes who think my California blood is a fine delicacy. My first evening here, I got 36 mosquito bites, and since then have had no less than seven at any given time.

Aside from all the leprosy 'dillos, pythons and gators you hear about in the news (see #4), I've also seen two toads hop across our porch, a gecko in the bath tub, tons of fish and ospreys in the bayou, dozens of turtles hanging out along the Clearwater River, and a lot of unfamiliar birds (the highlight being the pair of cardinals that like to munch on my bird feeder).

6. Semantics is unimportant

I've noticed an extraordinary amount of unfortunate wording on signs and billboards. It seems like no one really looks at a phrase or tagline from all angles before publishing, which is an immature brain's dream come true. For example, I saw this gem just the other day and had to snap a photo:

OK, I may need to be saved for poking fun at this one, but I couldn't help it. The wording was just too creepy.


DISCLAIMER: Overall, Pensacola has been way better than I thought it would be. I just had a handful of things that I thought would be fun to write about. The people are mostly normal, the beaches are awesome, and there are a lot of great bars and restaurants... it's actually a pretty thriving small city. It's different, but it's shaping up to be a fun little adventure. I even bought a banjo to get into the spirit.

I'm a Floridian now and I really don't hate it.

The Lesser-Known Causes of Obesity

I can recall the month of October 2014 as being a particularly hysteric one. The ebola outbreak in West Africa was worsening and with modern travel, made its way (on a very small scale) to American shores.

There were five people who tested positive for the disease on American soil, only one of whom perished from it. But with ebola dominating the evening news, sales of rubber gloves and surgical masks spiking, and anyone with the slightest cough being treated like a leper, you'd think it was the country's most threatening epidemic.

"Five positive diagnoses, one death," I thought to myself. And all this hubbub.

What if there really were an deadly epidemic in America, one that affected 35% of the adult population and 20% of minors? How would we react to that?

We wouldn't, and we haven't. At least not proactively enough. That epidemic does exist, and it's called obesity.

I'm not going to get into the economic, cultural or psychological effects of our society's gradual transition to an obese one, nor am I going to delve into the obvious causes we've all heard over and over (larger portion sizes, an increasingly sedentary lifestyle, higher processed sugar and fat content in food, etc.).

Instead, I want to explore some of the less thought-about, perhaps more outlandish causes for our nation's onset of obesity in the last few decades. Indulge me as I, dare I say it, muse.


The demise of dance

If you knew me in my formative years, you know that I think the way young people "dance" these days is completely ridiculous. Grinding crotches and gyrating hips is NOT dancing. I like to call what youngsters do in the clubs these days "Vertical, clothed sex."

Vertical, clothed sex is completely effortless. Since the 1930s, the days of swing dancing, jitterbugging, and Lindy-Hopping, dancing has becoming increasingly less coordinated and well, lazy. I'm not talking about what you see at Justin Timberlake or Chris Brown (they're incredible) concerts, but rather what you'd see at any given club on any given night.

Let's review some samples, shall we?

Dancing in the 1930s: http://youtu.be/-avipfNKqxQ?t=1m52s 

Dancing today: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aw5z1mJ_1qM

Need I say more?

1930s dancing: A full-on cardio workout. Today's dancing: You don't have to move your feet. Not even once.


The disappearance of the yard + introduction of the gardner

The suburbs were once a place to settle for the working man of the big city, a place where he could retreat and have his own house, a car, a couple of kids, a dog and an open space for them to all go outside and be active. Land parcels were big, houses were modest, and families often prided themselves on their yards.

In the last few decades, families have traded in the value of having a yard for a bigger house. Add-ons equal more rooms and livable square footage, which translate directly into dollars. Having grown up in Arcadia, California has given me a unique advantage to seeing this process grossly accelerate in the last 25 years.

My grandma lived on a street with modest two-bedroom, single story ranch homes on half acre lots. One by one, my grandma's neighbors have all died or moved away, and one by one, enormous mini mansions have taken their spots and swallowed their yards, the most recent selling for $5.5 M. 8,113 square feet. Complete with a wok room. A room... dedicated solely to a wok.

Yards provide a place for kids to play and a place for adults to upkeep. A lot of parents these days have bad cases of Mean World Syndrome, and won't let their kids walk to the park or school yard alone anymore; take away the yard too, and they've got nowhere to go be active. What do they do instead? Stay inside and watch TV. Stay inside and play on the computer. Stay inside and play video games. Stay inside and become obese.

And for adults, the yard used to provide great exercise. Ever tried to operate one of those old push mowers? It's not easy! Weeding, landscaping, raking leaves... these are all forms of simple exercise (not thought of as such) that burned calories and got adults moving. And yes, a lot of people do still have yards. But how many of them are tended to by the people who own them? The gardening industry has erupted in the last few decades, making it affordable for even middle class families to forsake yard work. But at what cost to your health?

The disappearance of the yard in combination with the explosion in gardening services has eliminated this hidden activity that provided good exercise for anyone dedicated to keep their yard looking nice.


The emergence of corporate America

With the Industrial Revolution, advent of the assembly line, and building of the nation's infrastructure came the fall of small-town America. And with the fall of small-town America came the extinction of walking.

From the first American settlers until the turn of the 20th century (big, concentrated cities excluded, where walking is still the main mode of transportation), every town had a center, and that center included stores, a school, a church, a tavern, and a smattering of other commercial enterprises. Each was unique to its own town. Before the introduction of cars, trains, and the infrastructure on which to operate them, people walked to accomplish whatever daily tasks they needed.

As anyone still living in a big city without a car can tell you, walking miles every day gets you fit. Once the infrastructure was built, major corporations were established and things got more and more spread out. Mega stores like Sears Roebuck and later WalMart put Mom and Pop out of business. People couldn't depend on their feet to get what they needed anymore. Cars, buses and trains replaced the need to walk, even short distances, eliminating another form of common yet hidden exercise in which we were once forced to engage.

[New] Life and Death on Facebook

When I was in the 10th grade, I made my very own MySpace page. It was my social networking debut. Prior, I had only digitally interacted with friends via AIM and the occasional AOL chatroom (until some creepy old man would inevitably pose "a/s/l?"). Ew.

As my 15 year-old self signed up and meticulously crafted my MySpace profile to reflect exactly who I was (Counting Crows' "Big Yellow Taxi" on autoplay, background picture a soccer net), I hadn't the slightest inclination that I was entering a world from which I could never return. 

Social networks have become one of the most pervasive forces in modernity. Some argue (and are mostly right) that with the advent of social networks and more broadly, the Internet, privacy is dead. Unless you don't exist online. Which are very few of us.

For we living, breathing, consenting adults (over the age of 13) able to make the decision for ourselves to exist online and choose to do so, more power to us. Hopefully most of us have sound enough judgement to decide what should and should not be published about ourselves to just about anyone in the world who wants to see it. I say "most of us" because there are plenty of people out there like this. And this. But I digress.

For we living, breathing, consenting adults. I carefully chose this wording for the consideration of two groups of people I've lately noticed have unique existences on social networks, Facebook especially: Kids and the dead.

We'll start with kids. There are four major developments in Facebook's product timeline that have encouraged the explosion of kids showing up in your newsfeed: The addition of the newsfeed itself (2006), the photos feature (2005), the LIKE button (2009) and the platform going mobile (2011). Since the beginning of time, parents have loved bragging about their kids. Since the beginning of photography, parents have loved taking photos of their kids. Combine the two in a seamless, 3-second process on your smartphone, then add the ability for people to publicly praise their kids and boom--they're all over Facebook. It's just an extremely convenient, public baby book.

But what future repercussions do kids face for an online identity begun before they had any say about it? Those naked toddler photos or stories about how they pooped in their hands and smeared it on the TV? We have no idea. It's so new, there's no way to tell what kind of social and psychological consequences having an online identity that early in life will have on someone as they age. After all, Facebook has only been available to the general public since 2006. Even the very first "Facebook Kids" are not yet 10 years old. We'll have to wait and find out.

Then there's the dead. Sadly, I've known several young people taken far before their time, most of them since I've been in college, and have had a Facebook page. The majority of these souls have lived on through their Facebook pages--for whatever reason, no one has deleted their profiles.

I've noticed for much of the living, the dead still existing in their digital social circles has provided them comfort; if they're still online, they're not completely gone. Perhaps in all of us, there's a subconscious, irrational belief that there's Facebook in the afterlife, and our late friends are still checking their notifications. The dead's Facebook pages now serve as digital memorials, a place for people to visit, continue posting photos, write memories and messages on their walls. And unlike a gravestone or ash site, you can take it with you wherever you may be. It's an ongoing homage to someone's memory and avenue to continue talking to them.

Kids, and the dead, on social networks. What do you think?