Seared, but maybe not severed?

First off, I have to rave about the restaurant I went to last night: finally, I’ve found one Joburg restaurant that knows how to prepare seared tuna (La Rustica, 103 Houghton Rd – I don’t own shares, promise!). I’ve learnt to gesture very emphatically to waiters my “tsssst, tssst” manouvre, indicating (with my hand taking on the role of the raw tuna fillet) the precise amount of time each side of the tuna should be exposed to heat. You might think I’d have learnt not to order tuna in Joburg, having been burnt time and time again (much like my poor overcooked tuna fillet), but no – I live in desperate hope that this time I will strike gold, this time the chef will understand; each and every time I hear ‘seared tuna’ listed as a special, I succumb to the adulterous promise of its tender, buttery seduction – and each and every time the slutty piece of fish appears to spend more time in the pan than in my mouth.

It’s not as though Cape Town fares much better these days – I’ve come to realise that the preparation of perfectly seared tuna is a dwindling art.

But anyway. What I really wanted to express today is highly related to a recent previous post, in which I wondered to what extent you were a product of the group of friends you associated with, and in which I stated that there are some people (perhaps groups of people is a better way to express it – one on one I’d like to think you might always find some commonality) that you’ll just never be friendly with.

So, the other day my temporarily (I hope) new Google (Facebook) spat out the name of someone I really liked (platonically speaking, dude in question – don’t get a heart attack now) way back in primary school, but have not seen since (save for one brief, chance encounter during the increasingly-distant varsity days). We started chatting (Chewwie, you’re a common friend, incidentally) and discussing blogs, and when he asked what the name of mine was, he gasped (the exact sound of this was conveyed through Internet transmission, trust me) to hear I’m none other than, of course, the author of this here bloggy-blog. It was total confirmation that as you grow older, you’re exposed to new experiences and different people, and your personality (and ideologies) develops in completely unique ways from each other person you knew as a child, which may either eventually converge more towards, or diverge more away from, the altering personality/ideologies of the adult people who were the children you first met. (Just re-read that, it’s pretty convoluted. In a nutshell: as a result of the personality/ideology transformations we’ve all undergone, we might have less in common with, or more in common with, our childhood friends/acquaintances).

What I’m trying to say is: dude in question, I wonder whether the person I’ve become (which hopefully is not my final ‘state’, I hope more transformation lies in my future) – clearly vastly different than the person I was, or at least appeared to be to him, judging from his ‘gasp’ – has more or less in common with you today than the person I was (or appeared to be)? Yes, it’s a largely irrelevant question, since I’ll probably not see you any more frequently than I have done over the past 15-odd years. But still, I’d just like to know.

Does Facebook credibly offer the promise of long-lost friends/acquaintances rekindling the friendships of the past? Or is it really going to be just an alternative way to communicate with your current friends, once the whole ‘friend’ harvesting craze has died down?