Sixty-five percent of adults in the United States have a Facebook account, including my 81-year old father. He doesn’t use it much. He started it last year after I told him that his granddaughter was posting pictures of her semester in Italy there and that Facebook was the best way to keep up with her adventure (even if it meant seeing her in various states of sobriety and with foreign men with a natural attraction to American blondes).
I have only rarely used a photograph of myself as my profile picture on the site, relying on photos (and cartoons) for purely comedic and crack-myself-up purposes.
I was doing my usual computer clean-up of my dad’s computer recently and he mentioned how infrequently he visited Facebook, but that more and more of his friends are talking about its uses and value. So I logged him on and showed him around a bit, including my page.
Him: “That’s your name, but that’s not your picture.”
Me: “There’s no requirement that you use your own photo.”
Him: “But that’s not your picture. It’s your name. How do people know it’s you if that’s not your picture?”
Me: “Trust me. They know.”
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