I take my connections seriously. My affiliations, endorsements, liaisons, relationships, contracts, favorites, ties all get at least a little thought. My job and personality each bring some reasons there (ethics, shy yet liking people a whole lot), but we're all becoming more cognizant of the roles network forces play in out lives. Time spent in one area is time lost somewhere else, and the implicit or explicit value of a present connection determines the level of the future connection. I hate to mention "Bayesian" here again, but I think the always-on nature of our modern lives leads us increasingly to process the world that way.

So, coverage of an experiment caught my attention yesterday. In her entertaining News.com blog, The Social ("all facets of the Web's gregarious side"), Caroline McCarthy wrote about a security company's test of Facebook users.

Sophos created a fake Facebook profile, under the name 'Freddi Staur' ('ID Fraudster' with the letters rearranged), and randomly requested 200 members to be friends with 'Freddi.' Out of those 200, 87 accepted the friend request and 82 of those gave 'Freddi' access to "personal information" such as e-mail addresses, dates of birth, addresses and phone numbers, and school or work data. Presumably, the other five had restricted 'Freddi' to limited profile access, which many users select for bosses, parents, or people they don't know in real life.

Carl Kasell came to mind. Kasell is the announcer of NPR's Wait, Wait… Don't Tell Me and famous in the world of answering machine messages. He's also my friend on Facebook, and I don't know him. Out of 200 friends, he's one of two I don't know. And this bothers me. A little.

Of the other 198, I like seeing updates on their lives. Most of them are spread around the country, but Facebook brings them closer. What they're up to, what pictures they want people to see, how their days are going — I care about that kind of stuff.

Every time Carl shows up in the news feed or status update, he's taking space from those friends. That main page only holds so much, and you can only tweak the system so much. The Facebook Carl isn't even the real Carl anyway. A Business Week story on older Americans using the service finds it no big secret.

Carl Kasell, the 73-year-old National Public Radio newscaster and judge on the NPR quiz show Wait Wait… Don't Tell Me, has "friended" dozens of people. Or so it seemed. It turns out the show's 23-year-old director, Melody Joy Kramer, actually runs his Facebook page. "Carl only looks at it every Thursday," she says. "He doesn't really use a computer."

But is that info enough to seal the defriending? Combined with the space problem? Isn't that where this posting is going? No. The issue gets more complicated.

Kasell's page is fun. His director and her cohorts have gone on a wild, cross-country friending binge, with special emphasis on media members and Chicagoans. He now has 861 friends. I know nine of them, almost all in different ways. The page itself is leisurely madcap, and I hear the show is much the same way. Rocky Agrawal, whom I've never met but whose name I know as he was ahead of my time at both Medill and Post.com, gives a snapshot view in his reDesign blog.

Carl's wall is full of admiration from fans including Katie O. who writes, "I love everyone at Wait Wait especially you Mr. Kasell! You make my long school weeks bearable." Another posted a limerick in honor of this week's guest, Patrick Fitzgerald:

A Law School Girl's Heart Throb
P-Fitz Must Fend Off The Mob
As A Prosecutor He's Special
In the Hot Seat Tonight He Will Dwell
We Can't Wait for this Week's 'Not My Job!'

Audience members uploaded pictures from this week's show in Chicago's Millennium Park and tagged them to Carl's profile. Other fans have hugged, thrown sheep at, tickled and chest bumped Carl. (Carl has responded by buying drinks, taking sexy back, goosing and throwing sheep.)

Chicago Tara tells me going to the Fitzgerald show was a blast. If I listened to talk on the radio, I would probably listen to Kasell. As many reasons as there are to defriend him, that's more than enough to leave me on the fence. The comtemplation ends without resolution.

If you're wondering about the other of the two friends I don't know, the story's simpler. Her name is Colleen, and she lives in Illinois. She's 19, attractive and — in some of her photos — has lost her pants.

Google confirms Colleen's a real person. Her favorite interests are vampires, horror movies and baby animals. Her middle-of-the-night befriending message begins "Hey punk," and that's enough for me.

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