I am using the old school typewriter font because I'm an old school guy. I will use this to confess my sins, my shortcomings, my biases, my hopes, my dreams, and my diabolical plots to advance my agenda.

I am blogging because I am scared to the point of twittering. I am on Facebook because I don't want you in my space. It helps me keep up with you, and you with me, on my terms from a safe distance.

That's because I don't want you to come over the house unannounced. In fact, don't come over at all. It's better this way. We can chat from over the fence, so to speak. On the jet, the view is always more beautiful from 10,000 feet.

In a way, it's like society in general. Forty years ago when I was a child, I knew the names of all my neighbors, what they did for a living, what their children's names were, and all that stuff. I ate a meal at least once in seven houses on the block of my childhood home. Folks from those homes found their way to our house, too.

Of course, last time we had neighbors over for a get-to-know you dinner, a few weeks later, she gave him his morning coffee in an unconventional manner, and he responded with the right hand of Christian fellowship across her jaw. They moved out -- he to the Elmore County jail for 10 days, she went somewhere else.

Thankfully, they moved away, and we did, too. It cured us of our odd desire to be good neighbors.

Today, I have no idea who our neighbors are, but I have their Social Security numbers. Not really. I don't know them. And they don't know me or my family. I could give you a couple of names, but if I were given a spelling test on their names, I'd be in trouble.

My neighbor behind me seems to be a nice lady. I call her "Nice Lady" to her face because I can't remember her name. I'll say "Hey, Nice Lady!" when we're outside watching our dogs sniff at each other through the fence. I notice there's a room open at her inn. Her husband hasn't been around since last fall.

Don't want to pry. Mind my own business.

She seems like a nice lady, always speaking in the two minutes two times a week when we see each other. Oh, she doesn't have a strand of hair on her head these days -- clearly undergoing chemotherapy.

Don't dare ask. It would be unseemly.

A week or two ago, my dog started going stark raving mad. I looked out the front door, and there was an older Asian woman trying to peer through the decorative glass door. I presumed it was the Korean lady who lives next door to me.

I hope it was, or I helped her jump off and steal the actual Korean neighbor lady's car who actually does lives next door to me. I'll take it on faith that it was my neighbor since she had the keys to the car.

I didn't worry about it for long. It's not like I know her or anything.