Next week marks the official start of summer and last summer’s book suggestions were well received, so we’re doing it again. Pour yourself a glass of iced tea or a crisp rosé and enjoy!

Cathy

Part love story, part thriller, part cultural immersion, Saturday Comes, a first novel by our very own Carine Fabius, is magic. Her compelling characters, alive and otherwise, take you on a journey of love, loss, revenge and voudou. From the Haitian home of the bourgeoisie to the palpable humidity of Miami, this captivating tale transported me and the writing took my breath away.

Currently, The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks is keeping me up at night. This true story, written by science writer Rebecca Skloot, is another page-turner. In the 1950s, a poor black woman’s cancer cells were taken without permission and eventually used to develop the polio vaccine and numerous scientific advances. While her cells make others billions of dollars, the late Henrietta Lacks remains relatively unknown and her family impoverished.

Prudence

Come to the Edge by Christina Haag. Imagine a Greek god descending from Mt. Olympus and sweeping you off your feet. Author Christina Haag captures the passion and tragedy of being loved by John F. Kennedy, Jr., the closest approximation to an Olympian who has ever walked the earth. Christina’s memoir chronicles the Kennedy inner-circle while revealing the flaws that brought this exquisite Icarus crashing to earth 13 years ago this July.

I haven’t read a book in one sitting since I had the time to do so—about three decades ago. Thanks to jetting cross-country sans enfants and Cathy Fischer, who handed me The Glass Castle as I hurried to catch a plane, I experienced the fullness of this absorbing pleasure once again. For six glorious hours, author Jeannette Walls’ true tale of her hillbilly-bohemian family transfixed me with an intoxicating brew of horror and hilarity so wickedly delicious that my own family seemed almost normal by comparison.

Connie

Fairly pulsating on my bedside table is a “whodunit”, In the Woods, by Tana French. I’ve been anticipating reading this Edgar Award-winning debut novel sent to us by a good murder mystery loving pal, and I feel I deserve it after my long, tedious, punishing slog through those damn three Steig Larsen books.

However, after the loss of one of America’s very finest writers, the exquisite Ray Bradbury, I’ve decided that for now I’ll pursue a deeper pleasure by re-reading some of Mr. Bradbury’s greatest works. Oh, you know which ones—how about The Illustrated Man for a start, or Something Wicked This Way Comes, or The Martian Chronicles? Doesn’t matter. I’ll be transported to other worlds all summer long and that’s the point, right?

Carine

Alert: These are not summer reads!
Anatomy of the Spirit by Caroline Myss, which aims to turn us all into intuitive healers, explains the chakra system in a physiological and psychological way that I was finally able to grasp. Oh, this energy center links to that dysfunction! At the book’s core is the creed she returns to again and again: “…your biography becomes your biology.” Never heard it that way before.

I love, love, love The Thinker’s Thesaurus by Peter E. Meltzer, a must-have for all writers and lovers of language. This is no mere provider of synonyms. It offers fresh alternatives to common words along with usage guides that will make you sound not just smarter but more raffiné!

Melissa

My friend the amazing iconographer Father Bill and I were bumming around a bookstore together a few months ago. Breathlessly Bill delivered a book into my hands saying “I am buying this for you. You must read it. If I knew for sure you’d like it I would buy you the whole series.” The book and the series Across the Nightingale Floor (Tales of the Otori). I read it, I loved it and I am now on book three of five. I didn’t think a story set in a fictional feudal Japan would grab me but grab me it has with its warriors and monks, fierce maidens and clans with mystical powers and dubious ends. Tales of the Otori takes readers far away and that is just the ticket.

Christie

A luscious adventure from an unexpected point of view I recommend The Mutiny on the Bounty by Irish novelist John Boyne. In December of 1787, and through a fateful encounter, orphan and thief John Jacob Turnstile finds himself aboard The Bounty bound for the tropics as cabin boy for Captain Bligh. John Jacob grew up hard and is headed towards prison. The rich foreigner whose pocket he attempted to pick strangely comes to the boy’s aid and finds a place for him among the crew of The Bounty about to set sail for the Society Islands. Boyne’s creative imaginings reveal a complex interplay between the characters. John Jacob’s observations on the flaws and insecurities of his masters are acute commentary on social injustice and man’s inhumanity.

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Add one of your favorite books to the list

For Prudence, a chance encounter at the local co-op reveals a road less traveled and the journey ahead

I noticed the woman’s skirt first. Made from a stretchy black polyester from another era, the skirt brushed the tops of her shoes, which peeked out from underneath like two pointy black snouts. She stared at the gleaming push-top coffee thermoses perched just out of reach as she fidgeted with an orange paper coffee cup, turning it over and over in her hands.

“May I get you some coffee?” I asked.

“No, I can manage,” she said, and promptly dropped the cup, which rolled under her wheelchair.

Our eyes met and both crinkled at the corners.

“Well. I guess maybe you’d better.”

Even without the disadvantage of the high counter, the prospect of selecting a cup o’ joe at the Brattleboro Food Co-op is daunting. Organic Love Bug, Free Trade Moka Sumatra, Mocha Joe Downtown Roast, Peruvian Water Process Decaf…the list goes on. She selected the Pierce Bros. Fogbuster—my favorite locally roasted bean.

“Cream? Milk?” I asked.

“No.”

She hesitated.

“Sugar?”

“Yes, please.”

My 17-year-old son, Casey, stood a few paces away, observing. I was happy he was there to witness this small and spontaneous gesture because our children don’t always have the chance to see their parents modeling anything more altruistic than buying a case of wrapping paper for a school fundraiser, sitting behind a table hawking hot chocolate for ski trip scholarships, or run-walking a 5-K for this or that charity.

Unpremeditated acts of compassion, kindness and charity are given lip service by just about everyone I know. But most people’s generosity of spirit is pre-planned, often with another agenda—such as a tax write-off or a round of applause from one’s peers—being fulfilled along with the act of giving.

“Casey, please hand Mommy the sugar.”

Casey handed me the organic turbinado sugar and I held the hot beverage while the woman poured in the right amount. I secured a plastic sippy lid and a cardboard cuff. The woman thanked us and, with the cup in one hand and her other working the chair’s controls, she was off.

Casey, who had been silent up until now, called after her in what most parents and teachers would term his “outside voice.”

“It’s always nice to help the disabled!”

Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw several heads turn our direction. My eyelids held a blink a moment longer than usual—curtains coming down on a play that had been perfectly performed right up until the last act when the lead actor flubs his lines and then vomits on the patrons in the first row.

I opened my eyes to see the wheelchair slow to a stop.The woman’s eyes flickered over Casey’s face. Could she, I wonder, see the wheelchair on the inside, as autism is sometimes labeled?

Not everyone we encounter comprehends that my son’s brain functions differently, which often leads to some, shall we say, uncomfortable moments.

Despite the potential for embarrassment, humiliation or cost—or conversely, despite the potential for epiphanies and joy—like many families, we’ve chosen to live our lives “as if.”

As if he’s not going to trample every foot in the row as he makes his way to his seat in a crowded Broadway theatre. As if he’d not going to comment, magna voce, that so-and-so looks decidedly less wrinkled and old since the last time he saw her. As if all is well. And usually, it is. But sometimes, it is not.

Thanks to 17 years of practice, I now have somewhat thicker skin than that with which I was born. I can, however, still be taken aback by my son’s behavior or words. Or, to be more precise, I can still be taken back. Taken back to those first years when every day brought new, unsettling news, prognoses and angst as I came to grips with how much my life and the lives of my family would change with his diagnosis.

Again, I can remember each and every slight, every comment, ”helpful” and otherwise. Again, I can feel transparent and fragile; a paper doll of a mom, incapable of protecting my own child against ignorance, abuse and bullying. And not just by children, misanthrop adolescents and hillbillies with two teeth.

“Is your child a little ‘off?’” asked a father at Little League when Casey was all of five. How does one answer that?

“Yes. And your child? Is he off, as well?”

Or, “Yes! Isn’t it grand?”

Or, “Yes, he has been diagnosed with autism, a lifelong condition that impairs social interaction, communication and relationships.”

Any way you cut it, by the time I’ve gotten to “yes,” both my son, myself and even the rest of our family are dismissed as inconsequential. Damaged goods; not worth cultivating. And certainly not to be picked for anyone’s team.

We self-selected ourselves out of Little League about the time the parents of most players were taking the whole ballgame way too seriously. But even before that, we were already veterans of a world that defined “acceptable” in narrow terms; terms that did not include my son or anyone else whose differences slowed the trajectories of those whose children were destined to attend Harvard, live in the White House, earn Nobel prizes, have brilliant careers or win Olympic gold medals.

None was more blatant than the incident of the pre-Tiger Mom tiger mom, a social-climbing feline in the form of an overly aerobicized mother with a tawny mane who took a swipe at my child as he struggled to keep up with the class of two-year-olds at the tony Broadway Gymnastics in Santa Monica.

I was usually the only mother in the waiting room—a glass paneled room where German, English, Irish (and the occasional Asian) nannies and I perched on bleachers overlooking the gym. Besides me, a mother’s appearance was a rarity, and this particular one—the pre-Tiger Mom tiger mom—peered anxiously through the glass wall that divided the waiting area from the gym. Inside, Casey’s group of four children, toddlers really, attempted somersaults with the help of two gym teachers. Casey who was four, was assigned to this group because his gross motor skills were more like those of a two-year-old.

“Who is that boy?” Tiger mom jabbed a well-manicured finger at Casey, who as if on cue, toppled over sideways instead of executing a neat forward roll like all the other kids in the class.

“Which boy?” I asked weakly.

“That boy in the red shirt.” Aerobics-mom tossed her glossy mane of salon-streaked hair and glared at me. “He’s holding the entire class back. I want my daughter OUT of that group.” She stormed off towards the gym office.

Despite the absurdity of the situation—these kids were two-year-olds, after all—I fretted for days over my son’s differences, unable to sleep, unable to enjoy food, unable to imagine a world where he would be safe. A world where he wouldn’t be judged and punished for needing more attention, for needing more resources and, above all else, more time.

The scars of these encounters resurface in dreams and in all manner of deja vu experiences that remind in buzzing neon signage, you are different.

And if I let myself feel, if I let the flesh and the years peel back, I can feel frail and helpless, buffeted by every blow. It doesn’t take much of a reminder for that to happen. Like this day, when my well-meaning boy, simply stated the obvious. It is nice to help the disabled. We should know. Many have helped us along the way and to these individuals, I am grateful beyond what words, gifts or bounty of any kind can convey.

I hoped the woman in the wheelchair wouldn’t douse us with hot coffee, throw a dirty look, or lecture Casey. I hoped she would recognize Casey and me as fellow travelers on that other road—the road where travelers bestow a gift on all they meet; the gift of recognizing humanity in all its manifestations.

Her eyes flickered over Casey, then over me.

The corners of her eyes crinkled. “Yes,” she said. “It is nice to help the disabled.” And then, she rolled on.

Hello, here are some words I would like to obliterate from our vocabulary, dictionaries, lexicons and consciousness.

Bureaucracy (byuu-rok-ra-see) – excessive official routine
How does bureaucracy sound? No, ma’am, I can’t schedule that appointment for you until your doctor faxes us an authorization; No, ma’am, we can’t set up online management of your corporate account until we order an ATM bank card for you (even if you don’t want or need one); Yes, ma’am, if you want to raise the limits of liability on one of your cars, you will have to do it for all three of the cars on this policy. I am so sick of talking to robots, aren’t you?

Cancer (kan-ser) – a disease in which malignant growths form
I think everyone on this planet can say that they know someone who has cancer, someone who had cancer, or someone who died from it. And far too many can say that they currently have cancer. Who invited this bastard to the party?

Depression (di-presh-on) – a state of excessive sadness or hopelessness, often with physical symptoms
Has depression reached epidemic proportions, or what? Every time I turn around, some formerly rational friend is having trouble making simple decisions, is crying about something that happened years ago, wants to get into bed and stay there, feels like life isn’t worth living or is reaching for Xanax, Prozac or Wellbutrin. Is there something in the Kool-Aid? Whatever the cause, this piece-of-crap mental state of affairs is pissing me off and needs to get the hell out of town by sundown.

Racism (ray-siz-em) – belief in the superiority of a particular race
What does racism look like? People in white robes and pointy hats (unbelievably silly); individuals with sunburns on their necks (Haven’t they heard about skin cancer?); Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas (Was that guy born blind and raised by a white family wearing pointy hats?); a dead young boy carrying candy and wearing black skin and a hoodie in a mixed neighborhood; more black men in prison today than were enslaved in 1850. Holy bloodhound! Black men make up 40.2 percent of all prison inmates even though they constitute just 13.6 percent of the U.S. population. What’s up with that? Racism is unbearably old-fashioned, committed to being dull, noisome and has zero sense of humor. This sucker’s from another planet and he’s breathing too much of our air. Let’s send him back.

Insomnia (in-som-ni-a) – habitual sleeplessness
Check it out: that’s me waking up two hours after going to bed—usually for a trip to the bathroom—and then rousing again between four and five o’clock and staying awake until 45 minutes before I have to get up at eight. Isn’t that nice? To Satan, maybe; but I am not Satan. That bleary-eyed, thick-witted person you see bumping into walls around four in the afternoon? That’s me too. And I am not wrong when I say there are multitudes that look just like me. Human beings are meant to lie down when they are tired, fall asleep, stay that way for a consecutive number of hours, and then get up feeling refreshed, lively and ready to start the day. Something is wrong with this picture and I’m blaming it on the hostile jackass who will only retreat if you throw Ambien at him. Forget warm milk and homeopathic pellets; that’s for puppy dogs. Insomnia has invaded the lives of people over 50 at an alarming speed. We need to write that out-of-control asshole’s name on a chalkboard and then erase the shit out of him.

Do I seem just the tiniest bit angry to you? Honey Badger don’t care! Besides, getting mad is often the first step to taking action. Let’s go after that cancer bastard and give him a grand escort out of town. Care to join me in forming a posse?

What’s got you heaving?

A few years ago on a vacation in Puerto Vallarta, my husband Lee and I spent a long, hot afternoon ambling and exploring the old colonial part of town. We visited craft stores, museums and art galleries, we walked up and down the cobbled streets, shopping and gawking, eating churros from vendors, listening to street music and doing other touristy type things until we were finally tired, steamy and thirsty.

We started walking back towards our hotel via the Malecon, the ocean side of the street, which boasts an amazing array of public art and loads of families, locals and turistas walking and enjoying the sculptures and the ocean view. Exhausted, we ducked into an upstairs bar with an open balcony, ordered a bucket of Pacificos, some chips and salsa, and sat back to watch the colorful Mexican world drift by. As we settled in, we observed a Balloon Man holding down about a hundred helium balloons trying to hawk them to passersby, and dozens of little kids running back and forth begging their young mothers to buy them. We sat for about ten minutes when Lee excused himself; I thought to go to the bathroom.

When he returned, we focused on watching Balloon Man. All of a sudden, Balloon Man just started handing balloons out to the children one by one. Their mothers were gesturing, saying “No, gracias” and Balloon Man seemed to be explaining that the balloons were free. The little kids were ecstatic, their mothers shaking their heads in disbelief, smiling at their great good luck. When I asked Lee what he thought had happened down there, he just grinned at me, his blue eyes twinkling. He told me that he had run downstairs, across the street, and paid Balloon Man $20.00 to give balloons to the children till the money was gone. We sat there for the next hour, sipping our icy cold beers, me completely in love with my guy, watching and laughing with those children and their moms as they accepted this unexpected gift.

My husband and I are fortunate enough to live in a beautiful place and to have access to extraordinary experiences. We have been blessed with good health, strong bodies and a keen interest in travel and adventure. We have sailed the Caribbean, kayaked around glaciers, zip-lined in Costa Rica, hiked the Great Wall of China, had a bird’s eye view of Mt. Denali and an active volcano (thank you, Gary Smith). I have climbed to the top of Mt. Whitney, backpacked into Haleakala, went to Mississippi with the Red Cross during Hurricane Katrina, walked out of the Sierra high country in the full moon light, rafted down the Colorado River, and most recently, our Cathy and I, took a flying lesson. I tell you this not as a boast, but to be present to it all and to say to anyone who cares how grateful I am.

There are only a handful of truly perfect days in anyone’s life, days when you think, If I left this earth now, I would be leaving in a moment of real happiness. It didn’t take much to make that day in Puerto Vallarta one of those moments, just a simple act of kindness.

—For Melissa, an emotional winter gives way to the surprise of new growth—

If one pays the closest attention it is possible to see the turns of the seasons in particular the arrival of Spring. Here in Northern New Mexico the seasons are showy, dramatic and distinct rituals accompany them.

I’ve been here for the last two and a half months having arrived early in February to be with my father during his time in a rehabilitation hospital as efforts were made to get him back on his feet after a particularly “killer” series of chemotherapy treatments. I’ve seen him released from the rehab hospital only to be admitted to another hospital a couple of weeks later and to hear the Doctor say “he is dying.” I’ve participated in the first meeting with the hospice doctor. I was present to hear the doctor say, “It’s true I am a hospice doctor, but I also have hospice graduates and I think its possible that a year from now you will be one of my graduates.” With this possibility held out to us we all, the whole family, became singularly focused on my father’s weight gain and his tours up and down the hall with his walker. We have gone from the place where my father’s friends came ostensibly to say goodbye, to the pleasant surprise of ongoing visits.

The death and life drama in my family has played out against the backdrop of the change of seasons. I arrived in the dry bitter cold of February a month during which three of four times I woke up to soft white snow. Each time, despite having had the experience before, I exclaimed in wonder. Spring proceeded with buds turning to blooms and then another surprise snowfall.

Here no matter the temperature nothing signals the coming of Spring more than the sight of people out with shovels and rakes cleaning what to most of the world look like everyday run of the mill ditches, but here are known as “acequias” which does in fact translate to “irrigation ditches”. The acequia system here in northern New Mexico was created by the Moors and brought here in the 17th century by Spanish colonists and remains intact today.

Preparation of the acequias to receive the Spring runoff is a community affair and in many, if not most cases, generations of the same family have participated in this timeless ritual. To irrigate your fields you must have water rights, and when you receive the water and how much is subject to the size of your fields, community discussion and ultimately to the Mayordomo — loosely translated as “the Butler” of the acequias.

In a primarily agricultural community Spring is signaled by the arrival of water, lambs, calves and kids. The babies are adorable to be sure, but the life cycle has its drama in the pastures just as in the streets. One evening at dusk I witnessed the birth of a goat (kid). Within 20 minutes the mother had that baby clean, dry, up on its feet, suckling and ready to face the world. Another birth did not have such a celebratory outcome. The first baby arrived with little fanfare but it became clear the mother was in distress. As it turns out the next baby was breech and had to be pulled only to discover there was yet another. The two were stillborn, full-grown having no doubt died during the difficult birth. Now though, the pastures are full of fast-growing bounding babies. Most lived, a few did not.

A few days ago I was initiated into the subtleties of moving water. The release of the water into the fields is only the beginning of the process. The water needs to be guided and moved to the right places. This is done with a particular movement—a gentle swish and then a soft smoothing of the back of the shovel from the place where water has gathered to the place you want it to go—thus moving water. Having acquired a certain mastery of the arm/body/shovel/water movement the process becomes a moving meditation in which success comes with a singular focus—focus on the field, the direction of the breeze, the slope of the land, the flow of the water and the gentle formation of lines with which to guide the water. On occasion, a more direct form of intervention is required—the creation of a dam and/or a line of mud in one area to direct the water to another.

Of course my day of moving water lent itself to a particularly contemplative state in which certain things rose up from the depths to a level of consciousness. Things such as lines from songs,

…when you find yourself wishing for things in the past, remember the wrong things aren’t supposed to last.

And how the quiet parched times of my emotional winter eventually gave way to the surprise of new growth, beautiful sights creating a catch in my throat accompanied by occurrences I could never have imagined.

And in a few days I will go and sit with my father, who has gained weight and now walks without his walker.

I am sure of nothing except for the cycle of change.
Everything changes, lives and dies.
Breathing, being and moving with the grace of the water bringing life to all in its path—this is life and living with unceasing wonder.

As time tests her patience, Prudence is not amused

The waiting game. Just because this phrase rhymes with the iconic Jim Lange-hosted TV game show of my youth, I am not amused.

I object to coupling the word “waiting” with “game.”

There’s nothing joyful, fun or amusing about waiting, therefore waiting is not a game.

In truth, the phrase “waiting game” was never meant to be frolicsome. It originated in 1895 as a bellicose term describing the high-stakes game of Risk that certain European colonial powers were playing with the countries of Sudan, Burma and Serbia-Bulgaria—and each other, of course.

Yes, “waiting game” is a militaristic term meaning “to lie in wait and watch with hostile intent until the moment to strike is right.”

In my book, waiting alone (no need for “game”) sends my blood pressure spiking. On Prudence’s Aggravate-o-Meter, waiting for the elevator is a 6. Unless there are more than a dozen people also waiting. Then it’s a 10.

Waiting for my computer to reboot is a 9.5. Losing my own keys is a 7. Hearing my husband demand of no one in particular, “Where are my keys?” is a 10.

Waiting for someone (anyone?) to say, “Gee, thanks for making the lovely dinner,” is an 8. Unless there is an open bottle of wine with my name on it, then it’s a 2.5.

Some waits are harder than others. Like waiting for your son or daughter’s college admissions notification—which is much more agonizing for you as a parent than you as your 18- or 19-year-old self waiting for your own admissions news.

And then there’s waiting to hear about your own fate.

About a month ago, a tiny lump appeared at the site of a previously excised melanoma, I heard the cards of the sinisterly monikered waiting game shuffling once again. And this time, cancer is one of the players at the table.

By now, with four melanomas under my belt (actually, one above my belt on my upper right arm), I know the drill.

The first move is always cancer’s. “Can you find me before I foreclose on your body?” asks The Big C.

No need to tell cancer about lying in wait with hostile intent—like the Wall Street financier, hostile takeovers are cancer’s life’s blood.

Cancer would claim it plays fair; it shows us some of its signature cards—lumps, bleeding, pain, swelling—but not all. Cancer’s ace is that it knows human nature is pleasure-seeking so we ignore cancer’s calling card for as long as we can. It just lies there on the table near the door where we dump the Restoration Hardware catalogs, multiplying while we fiddle, shop and make plans for sunny days we’ll never see.

As a cancer survivor five times over, I’ve learned that even though I don’t want to play, I must choose a token and move onto the game board. So, I do.

The call to the doctor—if you can find a dermatologist who still deals with skin cancer and hasn’t sold his soul to the gods of vanity (Botox, anyone?)—is next and always my first move. I think it’s a smart one.

Fortunately for me, the heir apparent to Dr. Alfred Kopf, the premier melanoma expert of the 20th century, practices medicine across the river from my home. I am already his patient so he returns my call. (I pocket an ace, skip past cancer and collect $200!)

I also have another ace—health insurance, thanks to my husband’s union. One out of every five adults has no health insurance—a death sentence if diagnosed with the fast-moving cancer, melanoma.

And so, with two aces in my hand, I’m either a pro golfer or one lucky playa who is gonna beat this thing back. Again.

But in between comes the waiting game.

Thankfully, Prudence received a phone call last Friday telling her that the biopsy came back benign.

Cathy examines social interaction and social change in an ever-shifting landscape

Navigating the social graph is fraught with obstacles. If I were to draw a diagram, it would probably look something like a dream catcher with extra large holes. You’ve got your Real World Friends, and you’ve got your Facebook Friends: you’ve got your Facebook Friends who aren’t Real World Friends but work associates, your Facebook Friends who are old schoolmates, but not currently Real World Friends, and then you’ve got your Facebook Friends who are inspirational, famous or dead, who you wish could be your Real World Friends. It’s as exhausting as high school, navigating the world of cliques and mean girls.

There’s the challenge of manners. Coming of age during the analog era, we struggle with the social q’s of days gone by, when we were taught to bow at the Ferragomoed feet of Ann Landers. Antiquated behaviors such as handwritten notes and telephone calls still play a role—but less than ever before—and tangible treasures like love letters and birthday cards are fast becoming relics of the past.

In this transition period where Digital and Real Worlds collide, etiquette is still trying to catch up. What do you do, for instance, when you’re sitting across from someone at dinner and they’re texting or checking their phone? New York Times advice columnist Philip Galanes says the non-engagers should excuse themselves, and only if it’s important. But does one say something to them? We’ve taken on a sense of urgency that is not only unrealistic but stress-inducing. How about those unflattering pictures someone posts of you on Facebook and then has the gall to tag them with your name? Stop already!

When I wrote about Facebook in “Technology: Blessing or Curse?” in 2008, it inspired my Real World Friend Jeff to sign up. He reconnected with a high school acquaintance and one wedding and a gaggle of grandchildren later—a la The Brady Bunch—he’s a very happy guy. But then there are the failed attempts to rekindle old flames and the friending/unfriending conundrum. Reunited, blighted, slighted. High school all over again.

I’ve always looked at the social network as the Push-Me-Pull-You creature from Dr. Doolittle. The majority of my Facebook Friends fall into the work category, so I’m often torn between what I perceive as two separate worlds.

Social networking done right requires lots of care and tending—that’s why Fifty is the New does not have a Facebook page. There’s no doubt that Facebook and Twitter are powerful tools for building audiences, fans, clients and converts. It has been a source of important and sometimes spirit-lifting information. It’s where I first found out about my childhood crush’s demise (RIP Davy Jones). It’s where I watched “Shit Yogis Say” which still makes me smile every time I think about it. It’s where outrage turned into action when Susan G Koman defunded Planned Parenthood and Rush Limbaugh spewed hate-mongering assaults at Sandra Fluke. It’s all there, the junk, the gems, the news, the breakthroughs and the TMI.

Recently, Israeli president Shimon Peres was in the Silicon Valley and made a stop at Facebook headquarters to launch his own page and drum up some business for his country. “Facebook introduced more social change than (any) political power,” he said. “Zuckerberg doesn’t have a party, doesn’t have a country, doesn’t have an army… He has an idea—that’s it. And look what he did. He changed the world.”

Egyptian Google employee Wael Ghonim sparked a revolution when he posted images of slain Khaled Said on Facebook. Twitter too was a major player in Egypt and Syria, and with Occupy and other movements. The world has been changed by people connected via social networks. As Tevye said in Fiddler on the Roof, “It’s a new world Golde.” It most certainly is.

Got any pet peeves regarding the collision of the digital and real world? How do you navigate the new social order?