Yesterday afternoon I met a fella I have been Facebook friends with for eight years. I mean, in real life, face to face, in the actual flesh, not a hologram or talking head on a cell phone (not that I evr do that, though, either) or any other thing other than the good old-fashioned way we did back in 1948. And it was fabulous. As was he.

He and his husband of 23 years live in Bisbee, Arizona, on several handsful of acres, in a house that I, especially in my Manhattan mindset, would call a complex. They have tons of space and a pool and from what I can see from photos online, it looks quite sleek and streamlined and masculine and marvelous, like the gents who call it home.

So, anyway, I got to the restaurant, a neighborhood staple that has been here for ages and fortunately seems to be sticking around, unlike many other establishments, and selected a seat by one of the big windows. My first impression of my friend was of him moonwalking past the window when he saw me, and I knew we were in for a ride. Even while seated at a table.

So we spent the next five hours gabbing and guffawing and gnawing on sandwiches and French fries and onion rings. (He only had one onion ring, I think, and I was left to be a beast on my own, which, frankly, is fine.)

I never would have met this hilarious, absolutely insane (in the best possible way) person had it not been for Facebook. Or learned some very useful American Sign Language. So in that regard, Facebook served a useful purpose.

Still, I’m pretty much over it for the time being, which is kind of a “blessing in disguise” (pause to vomit a little, in your mouth or otherwise — just not someone else’s mouth, unless you’re thoroughly disgusting and that’s your “thing”) because that means I’ll be here, spewing my spew. If people come here to “see” me, that’s cool. If not, that’s fine too.

I feel like I’ve come home.