I was a Facebook “early adopter” inasmuch as I created a profile in late 2004 or early 2005 so that I could do recon on the undergrads I was supposed to be spotlighting in the marketing publications that I worked on at the time.* Back then, I could see pretty much anyone’s profile, provided they attended the university where I work. Mostly, I needed to make sure that none of their profile photos included gravity bongs** and that none of their personal information said anything to the effect of “HITLER WAS RIGHT” or “Embrace Jesus as your personal savior or suffer His wrath.” If they passed on both counts, they became a Maybe. If they had academic honors or a special scholarship, they became a Yes. And if they were “diverse” in addition to that, we basically dispatched a limo to go pick them up and bring them in for an interview. Because that’s how the world works.
My own profile was entirely blank, no photo, nothing. I would periodically get friend requests from old college friends, but I’d ignore them, because that’s not what I was there for. Now I’m on Facebook every day. I do not remain in contact with too many high school or college friends. (You needn’t wonder why.) I’ve blocked a lot of people. (Look: I’m not up to anything interesting. You’re not missing out, okay?)
Friday night, I came down with a 102° fever, lower GI nastiness, muscle aches, general malaise, etc. I lay on the couch, wrapped in the amazingly warm and strange blanket my in-laws gave us for Christmas, watching Tivo’d episodes of Tabatha’s Salon Takeover. (What.) At some point, I checked my email. Work stuff, sale at Rugs USA, and a Facebook Friend Request from my first unrequited high school crush.
I was momentarily startled, but also quite delirious, so I promptly forgot about it and went back to sweating, self-pity, and concern that the salon in Palmdale was just plain unsalvageable, Tabatha or no.
Whenever a stranger on the street asks me for directions, I always, always stop and try to help.
Because I am a helpful person.
So yesterday morning, after semi-successfully vanquishing my lousy mood at the gym, I’m heading to work. And up ahead of me on the sidewalk I see this guy talking on his cellphone. And I’m thinking, this poor guy. He has all these freckles, and red hair, and poor eyesight, and obvious problems with his adenoids, and no grasp of flattering fashion. And also, he’s wearing a Yankees cap and jersey, which leads me to suspect that he might be retarded. (I know it’s not very zen of me to keep this running inner monologue that consists mostly of stranger-judging and Death Wish-style fantasies. If I could learn meditation I’m sure the voices would quiet a bit. I have a number of meditation albums on my iPod. I only listen to them on the subways to drown out everyone around me. But I’ve learned that it’s important to remember how strangers are dressed and what they look like because as a Hysterical Feminist®, I believe that all men are potential rapists. As an added bonus, this enables me to follow men’s fashion trends pretty closely.)
But I’m saying this because this guy is standing right in my way on the sidewalk, talking on his cellphone. And me, I’m listening to my Getting Psyched for Quietly Resigned to Work mix, which begins with “Can I Say.” And I’m looking at him because now I’m right in front of him. He’s pretty tall. And he takes his phone from his ear and starts saying something to me and because I AM A HELPFUL PERSON I pull my headphones out of my ears and I’m expecting him to ask for directions to one of the myriad neighborhood methadone clinics (because maybe he’s not retarded, just addled) and I say, “Pardon me?”
And he says, “I said how you doin’ this morning, mama?”
In terms of threat level, dickhead was more along the lines of Annoying Pinstripe Fedora Dude than Schrodinger’s Rapist. But you know what? Fuck that guy. I generally just shake my head and keep walking in situations such as these*, but yesterday? I was irritated. So I say to him, “Is this your strategy? Do you just interrupt women you don’t even know on the street to harass them?”
And he gets all exercised and hoots and says “YEAH!”
And over my shoulder I shout, “GOOD LUCK WITH THAT, DICKHEAD!” What can I say, why should I try, indeed.
But seriously: Fuck that guy, and fuck YOU if you’ve ever been that guy.
*And of course the one time I actually engaged in conversation in one of these situations it turned into some Herzog short. I was in Prospect Heights, running an errand, and this guy driving an ambulette van slowed down to talk to me. (It should be noted that the sole requirements to become an ambulette driver in NYC are that you be a) insane and b) completely unaware of driving rules and regulations.)
Him: “Hello there.”
Me, walking, pulling headphones off: “Hi.”
Him: “Did you know that you’re beautiful?”
Me: “Yes.”
Him: “Can I give you my number?”
Me: “I’m married.”
Him, cars honking behind him: “Does your husband tell you every day that you’re beautiful?”
Me, trying to get him off my case, though clearly the honking isn’t deterring his mission: “Yes.”
Him: “Because I think it’s real important that a woman gets told that she’s beautiful. Every day.”
Me, hitting the street corner and turning left: “That’s nice.”
Him: “Especially when they’re on their period.”
Me: [???]
Him, driving off: “You have a nice day, beautiful.”
Epilogue: I still can’t tell if that was serious street harassment or performance art. Naturally as soon as he was out of sight, I spun my skirt in a 360 in the middle of the sidewalk, just to check…well, you know.
Over at the Rumpus, Elissa Bassist conducts an interview with her ex:
Elissa: I’m continually perplexed as to why you kept talking to me, for what turns out to be nearly five years. That fact alone made me think you loved me, or could love me, circumstances permitting. I wish you’d just cut me off the first time. Because I spent years, actual years, crying tears, actual tears, over you. Like the innocent girl you thought I was, I loved you innocently and deeply and fantastically. You knew this. And you knew how much pain I was in. And you let it go on. I thought that was you loving me. I was always begging you to let me give you a blow job because I was sure you’d love me soon enough.
Dan: And eventually, I came to love the blow job you gave me.
I’m pretty confident that all of us, on some level, would like to do this with one of our exes. With me, I’d probably perform a citizen’s arrest after it was over.
Meth pipeline busted in Colorado:
Women were used to distribute the drugs locally through their body cavities, Suthers said.
“It’s a tawdry piece of information, but it’s a big part of what this group was doing,” he said.
The Castros allegedly laundered their drug sales through the buying and selling of comic books. Officials said $500,000 worth of classic comic books were seized.
“To launder the money, you have to have something you can use that is quick and convenient,” Suthers said. “And in this case, they used classic comic books.”
…which made the deals, the Attorney General said, probably the closest any comic book collector has ever been to the female reproductive system.
Where did she go?
I am lazy. If you're bored, go visit my tumblr, updated daily with other people's witticisms and erudition.Also by me
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