Wrong. Tonight the Facebook identity gestapo caught on to my little caper. They won’t let me log in because, geniuses that they are, they suspect I’m not using my real identity on that account. Good job, detectives. I suspect my account got flagged because for some time I’ve been ignoring their demands to add phone numbers and more e-mail addresses to my account to make it “more secure.” Tres amusant. My data becomes more secure when I give more of it away? Uh-huh. I would hazard a guess that people who like their privacy are also more prone to pseudonyms. That’s never jived with Facebook. They want their users to cough up the data, and cough it up now. Many people willingly vomit every last detail about themselves without caring who sees. Me, not so much.

From its soulless, sterile blue and gray color scheme to the monochromatic way it categorizes all human relationships as “friends”, I’ve struggled with Facebook from the beginning. Its users — human beings the mighty Zuck referred to as “dumb fucks” — pump every detail about themselves into a system without giving a second thought to what it means. Pop quiz — did you know that hitting the “Like” button on Facebook constitutes a binding legal agreement? Turns out that South Park episode about our cavalier approach to end user license agreements wasn’t so far off the mark.

I tried putting “Loki Kitteh” back in as his new name. Tron must have stopped fighting for the users because I got another error message from Master Control:

Inauthentic Name – Temporary Block
Unfortunately, the name you entered was not approved by our system. Please wait 10 minutes and then try again.
Make sure you enter your name correctly and that it complies with our formatting guidelines. Please note that if your next attempt is also unsuccessful, your account may be disabled.

Inauthentic name? How about inauthentic service? How about creativity stifling identity police? How about there’s nothing wrong with nicknames, pseudonyms, and playing with authorial personas? If Mark Twain were still alive, would you be breaking his balls because he failed to write “Samuel Clemens” next to his Social Security Number on your signup sheet?

Beyond the problem of requiring real-life identity is the issue of what friendship is supposed to be about — enjoying yourself. Loki is pretty damn funny and interacting with my friends on his behalf is fun. FUN. Do you know what that is, Facebook, or did you miss out on that because you were too busy not being invited to parties in college? Do you even know what the Internet is for? Don’t you KNOW that it’s ruled by cats?

At the end of the day, it’s Facebook’s walled garden and if they want to shake down everyone for ID at the door I guess that’s their own affair. The problem is, I really don’t have an aternative. As sketchy as Facebook’s privacy policies are, Google’s are downright evil. Anything you give to either social network is theirs. Forever. No tap tap takebacks. But if you give it to Google+, it becomes public, able to be used by others for profit, and you lose creative control over your images and words. At least all the stuff you give to Facebook isn’t indexed by search engines. Yet.

It sucks to be sent a message by this company telling me I don’t have a place in online dialogue because having a pseudonym is more fun and comfortable for me. Guess I’m going to have to start bugging my sister for those links to her photo gallery again . . .

I can’t stand being poked. It makes me want to do violence to people. And I have no idea why. Maybe it’s passive-aggressively timid and invasive at the same time? I don’t know. All I know is it makes me crazy. It makes me even more crazy when I tell people that it makes me crazy and then they think it’s funny to stand there and poke me with a stupid grin on their face. (As a friendly tip — do not ever do this to me. I will genuinely become angry with you.)

Whistling also makes me insane. I don’t know why. There’s no reason for it. As a small child, when the Andy Griffith Show would come on right after I Love Lucy, I would leap up and rush to the TV to turn the dial. (Once upon a time, children, televisions had dials). There is someone — I don’t know who — whistling somewhere at their desk here in the office right now and typing this blog post is the only thing keeping me from pelting them with used tea bags.

There is no rational origin for either of these pet peeves. Yet they are etched into my brain as the perfect triggers for annoyance. I can think of no childhood trauma, no direct cause for these. I’d be happy to hear any theories. Just please, please, for the love of Mike, don’t poke me while whistling.

I wasted a good half day by taking my car to a mechanic who royally tried to rip me off. Every time I’ve walked into an unfamiliar mechanic’s shop, I’ve generally been suspicious of the price tag I’m quoted. I can admit my limitations on my knowlege and expertise, which is why I readily ask others for advice. That is, when the deal being offered to me doesn’t stink so bad even I know it’s rotten. I don’t know everything about cars but I know enough to know that replacing the entire brake system isn’t common practice and a price tag that is 2/3 the value of the car is unheard of. So now I’m taking the car to a place that comes with a strong personal recommendation and a reputation for honesty.

I’m tired of the assumptions that get made about me. There are several common ones, and they’re mainly all tied to the fact that, I suppose, my physical appearance suggests gullibility. Stupidity, even. The big ones:

1. Men who speak to me out of the blue always assume I’m a skank or someone with low self esteem just dying for their attention. This could have less to do with me on a personal level and more to do with the attitude of that kind of guy toward women. I’ll never know either way though, because it isn’t worth my time to find out.
2. In general, people assume I’m not very smart before they get to know me. If I had a nickel for every time someone has said they thought I looked unintelligent before they actually got the chance to speak to me . . . When people confess this, they tend to look guilty, but I don’t hold it against them. First impressions don’t matter when people wisely reserve judgment.
3. Many native speakers of Spanish assume that I don’t know what they’re saying when they. But just because I’m a guera doesn’t mean I’m not bilingüe. Usually the conversations had in front of me are harmless or irrelevant. But if they start saying things I don’t appreciate, I make it clear that I understand every word, and they are either humiliated or shocked, or both.
4. Mechanics assume I’m a complete idiot when it comes to car repairs. Finding people I can actually trust is a real headache, and I am often quoted a price at least double of what is considered fair. When I call mechanics on this by making it clear that I understand how my vehicle functions, they are either angry or shocked, or both.

These things happen often enough, and in enough of a pattern, that I know they’re true. I’ve changed locations, increased in age, changed my clothes, changed my hair, but the common factor is that a certain number of people will look at me and see someone they believe is a complete dummy. I’ve learned to deal with it, but every now and then I just want to flip the bird to the outside world and just stick to dealing with people I already know. Why bother with meeting more people? I’m sick of hearing things like “oh, wow, you’re different from what I thought.” Because even if they meant well and are good people, it stings to effectively hear “oh, wow, I thought you were a real dummy.”

Why do people keep playing Peter Frampton? Why? This morning on the way in to work they were playing tracks off of Frampton Comes Alive! and I just can’t take it any more. I don’t care that he has the fourth best selling live album of all time. It’s not good. It offends my ears, my decency, and my ability to listen to music. I don’t understand how a man who had mainly crappy record sales, bad poofy hair that transcends all bad poofy hair from the ’70s, and such a limited command of the English language that every damn song he wrote uses the words “day” and “way” as the basis of the rhyme scheme should suddenly hit it big with a live album comprised entirely of music that should only be played in a dentist’s office.

Why do people keep listening to it? There were a lot of things that were popular in the ’70s that we’ve since come to terms with, apologized for, and moved on from. Ain’t nobody thinks polyester pantsuits are good for anything but Halloween now, and Underalls have taken a back seat to the thong, as nature intended. But Peter Frampton still makes the rounds on the classic rock stations. You know, kind of like those white elephant things you inherit from grandma when she dies. You’ll suddenly find yourself wondering, “Why do I still have this collector’s figurine of a turtle waltzing with a bulldog that smells like cat pee?” And the only answer you have is “because grandma had it for 78 years and she left it to me.” It’s not a good answer, but “because it’s been that way for a while” is all-too-often a barrier to change that is a couple of decades overdue.

It’s time, classic rock stations. Please kick Frampton to the curb. He smells like cat pee, and everyone will be relieved, not offended, at your courage to finally do something about it.