So the buzz is that You — as in you, and you, and you, too — have the privilege of being Time magazine’s Person of the Year. You now share that distinction with George W. Bush (2000, 2004), Hitler (1938) and Pope John Paul II (1994).

Time’s announcement could trigger an immediate pontification — as a marketing person/blogger/social diva of my own accord — about working and living in the midst of this new Internet bubble; or to blather endlessly on social networking, user-generated content and collaborative community wisdom. I’d rather giggle about the recent chaos left at various organizations in the wake of holiday party mischief caught on mobile devices and uploaded to the Internet. And that’s equally geeky and more interesting from a social-engineering standpoint.

But I won’t. Because while it’s nice that Time recognizes you, and you, and you, Time still doesn’t really know you. And neither do I.

I only know about me. And my loved ones. And my friends, and what’s been going on in our lives. Some of it has been exhausting. Some of it invigorating. Lots of it good. 

Much of it, in light of recent events, makes me re-evaluate my relationship with you. And you. And yes, even you, too.

What I’m talking about, my friends (both old, new and as yet to be introduced), is the community that we live in. In friendship, with families, in romantic circumstances, clubs, work and philanthropic and artistic endeavors — I don’t know you enough. But I’m trying. And instead of being thin in that knowledge, I want to know you as a person. Not by what you do for a living or your title or latest accomplishment, but in the little things that make you you. 

Because life is really short. And precious. And should be seasoned with those little things about you that I want to know instead of the baseline of what everyone knows. It’s about knowing the salt and sesame seeds that go into the Challah (Jewish Passover bread, and yes, I bake this during the holidays though I’m a lapsed Catholic with nary a drop of Abraham’s heritage in me) and not the flour. It’s those things that make you wildly unique and fantastically human. Those things that make you passionate. Those things that make you a total dork.

Because with time, that’s what makes you special. Those are the memories that you leave behind with those who have loved you.

I was at city hall the other day purchasing a parking pass when the clerk asked for my driver’s license. “Are you related to James Kim?” “No. I didn’t know him,” I responded, and then awkwardly tried to avoid small talk as I filled out the final forms. I feel uncomfortable and empathetic these days, with the recent passing of James Kim. He was friends with some of my friends, and other colleagues in my community respected him for his work at CNET. What I know of his devotion to his family during his last days on earth is inspiring, heart-wrenching and worthy of heroic praise and respect. But can I mourn him? No. I did not know him, though I send my condolences to his loved ones. Those who knew him surely feel a loss that can’t be well articulated, but I’m confident his widow and children will never doubt his love and devotion.