I feel weak and small.
My emotions are big and strong, like the blazing sun on my shoulders.
One false move and I’ll burn to dust.
I’m not afraid of meeting new people.
Or important people.
I’m afraid of meeting old friends.
I know your secrets.
Even scarier, you know mine.
It will be hard to look into your eyes.
I might avoid them.
I sat on the aged wood barstool of the classic Hollywood bar. The elderly bartender wore a red sports jacket. The only other patron was an attractive blond, mid-thirties, in a aqua green dress with spaghetti straps and fashionable sandals, her iphone sitting on the bar next to her vodka glass. After a few sips of my drink, I built up enough nerve to move to the seat next to her, and talk with her.
She was a visitor from Dublin, Ireland. Twelve months ago, she took off a year from her teaching job at a middle school in order to tour America. She had traveled across the country, from New York, to the South, to the Midwest — and now knew America, our customs and quirks, better than the average American. She was at the last stage of her trip — the Golden State, California — San Francisco, Yosemite, the Central Coast, and now Los Angeles, her last stop. I was impressed with her sense of adventure. She was gorgeous, with a lovely Irish accent. I told her that I hadn’t met too many people who were secure enough in themselves to travel a whole country on their own, without getting lonely.
She said she loved America.
“Sounds like you’ve seen and done everything our country has to offer,” I said.
“No. Not everything. I haven’t f*cked an American citizen.”
I did a double take. Was my martini clouding my mind? Did she say what I though she just said? Her hand rubbed against mine. Now I was SURE that I heard it correctly.
“I love sex.” she purred. “And I’ve been without it all year during my journey. Before I fly back to Ireland on Monday, I want to f*ck someone from this great land of yours, this land of the free, of the brave. I want to f*ck this American hard. I want to f*ck this American soft. I want to f*ck this American until he turns red, white, and blue.”
Was God finally answering my prayers? I could swear that I once had this exact same DREAM, with this exact over-the-top dialogue, when I was in college, back in the days when I was scared of the opposite sex, with their batting eyelashes and their mysteries untold. Was this some sort of good karma coming my way for all my tough times over the last six months? If it was, I as a convert to Zen Buddhism.
“Hi, I’m Cara,” she said, extending her soft, sexy Irish hand.
“I’m Neilochk… I mean Neil,” I replied.
I was sweating. I remembered that old commercial — “never let them see you sweat.” I excused myself, so I could go to the restroom. I need a moment to breathe. Once behind the closed doors, a man-only haven, I washed my face with brisk water.
“I would be a fool not to seize the day.” I told my image in the mirror. “Or the night. Or however long she wants to do it.”
I dried my face, and returned to the bar.
She was gone.
The bartender beckoned, a smile on his face. He was old enough to have seen it all.
“You, my son, are gonna get f*cked like you never have before. She wants you, bad. She left you this…”
The old bartender handed me a folded piece of paper. On it, in a gentle flowing handwriting, it said –
“I’ll be waiting for you in my hotel room, with nothing on. Contact me. @caralovesfcking on Twitter.”
Whoa! Was this my lucky day or what?!
But then, I could feel the energy dissipate, like a dying light bulb. She only had left me her Twitter address! No hotel name? No phone number? Of course, she assumed someone as hip as me would be on Twitter as well, but… BUT… she didn’t know that I made a promise to myself NOT TO GO onto Twitter or Facebook for a week as a test of restraint!! And she was leaving on Monday! (sorry, you have to read the previous posts or you will have no idea what I am talking about)
Oh my God. What was I to do?
I called up a few friends, thinking they would tell me to stick to my plan, but surprising, everyone said I was crazy if I didn’t seize this unique opportunity. I even contacted some usually conservative-minded Christian bloggers, who pushed me to “go for it” as well.
“What about the fact that I’m still married?” I asked. “More importantly, what about breaking a promise to myself not to go on Twitter despite it being the only way to contact her?Doesn’t breaking a vow show poor character under God?”
“Screw character,” emailed Sarah from Tennessee, who writes under the name “Jesus-Loving Mommy.” “God works in mysteries ways. And clearly God wants you to get laid!”
Maggie Dammit. Jenny the Bloggess. Black Hockey Jesus. V-Grrrl. They all said the same thing. Go for it.
Kate, the exquisite writer at Sweet Salty, and who has a birthday tomorrow (Happy Birthday, Kate), surprised me the most when she said in a voice rarely heard on her soft-spoken blog, “If you’re not man enough to know the right choice, I’ll fly out there and f*ck this woman from Dublin myself!”
I decided that my friends were right. Happiness is more important than being a stubborn, moralistic twit intend on keeping to his promise to stay off Twitter and Facebook. And what’s the point, anyway? Who the hell cares? Already, my stats were down and writers were forgetting my name. The “new kids on the block” were taking over, eager and fresh-faced. This whole episode was turning into a self-defeating mess.
“Social media is a necessity nowadays.” I said to myself. “Only Luddites and fools turn their gazes from the future.”
I turned on my laptop ( I had already deleted my Twitter and Facebook apps from my iphone) and was about to log onto to twitter to contact Cara, the hottest woman I had ever met, when a suspicion arose.
“How did Kate know that this woman was from Dublin? I never mentioned it to her!”
This was very confusing to me. I went home and immediately discussed this with Sophia, who became my voice of reason. We came to the conclusion that there was a conspiracy afoot to bring me back into the fold.
“Don’t you see it? You have become a danger.” asked Sophia. “Once you start taking a week off from Twitter, others will start doing the same. Soon DMs will not be answered immediately, hashtags will be left unhashed, and Bachelorettes jokes will be a day late. The system needs to operate like a Borg. If not, it will collapse.”
I called a blogging friend who apparently has the inside scoop on all the behind-the-scenes shenanigan of “mommybloggers.” Through her, I learned that a group of prominent personal bloggers had used their blog advertising money from June to hire a high-priced hooker — this “Cara” — to entrap me into using Twitter this week. A webcam was hidden in her hotel room, and once I showed up and climbed into the bed next to Cara, I would have been exposed to the world as a “fraud,” and as weak as the next Twitter addict. I would have been dragged down to their level of the common obsessive Internet user.
Clearly, social media was now akin to the Mafia, or Scientology, where once a member, you can NEVER LEAVE!
Nice try, my so-called “online friends.” I didn’t fall for your ruse. And good “acting” job, “Cara,” if that is your real name. Your Irish accent could use some work.
I know you are angry at me, all of you addicted to social media, but in reality, you are angry with yourselves. You are still in a 140 character prison while I am living free. Born Free. Like Elsa the lion cub.
Five more days to go off Twitter and Facebook, and then I will be able to return, a new man. You’re going to have to come up with something more clever than sex with hot Irish woman to break my resolve.
This is truly pathetic. I had a dream last night about… being on Twitter. Not about climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. Not about walking with dinosaurs. Not about an orgy in a Parisian hotel room. No, typing dumb updates for strangers, limited by 140 characters.
You realize the only reason I am writing this is because I know this will update on Twitter and Facebook, so this is my way of cheating and communicating to others, to make sure I am not forgotten, like a child star from an old sitcom. This post has no literary value.
I deleted Twitter and Facebook from my iPhone, and it helped. I wrote with paper and pen to avoid the Internet. I talked on the phone. I emailed.
Ok. I cheated. I just went on Twitter and Facebook… to look if anyone mentioned me. Now I have to start the whole week all over again. Sad.
Remember that Seinfeld episode where they tested who was “master of their domain?” This is just as difficult.
Why are you so important to me? Or am I trying to run away from here?
Day One off Twitter was going pretty well. Why? Because there was still… Facebook.
When I decided to test my resolve with Twitter, I wasn’t worried about Facebook because, unlike many of you, I’m not addicted to Facebook. I can take it or leave it. I go days without going on Facebook. Sometimes, I can’t even think of a good status update.
(Mom, I’m sorry this post is going to sound like Chinese to you, but try to follow along. Think of Twitter and Facebook as the digital equivalent of cigarettes and hard liquor).
Facebook is not a “conversation,” and I am mostly addicted to talking in real time. The comments on Facebook come to you in familiar form, like in a blog post. You don’t have to rush to be there every minute or feel like you are missing out on important cultural information or the latest trend. I’m also comfortable being a “broadcaster” on Facebook, which means acting like one of those self-important jerks who sends out links and updates about myself, without caring much about any of you or what you have to say. I can separate myself from the mob.
This is impossible for me on Twitter. I care about complete strangers on Twitter. The interplay of words and emotions is so personal; it feels as if we are in bed together whispering secrets to each other. No wonder I am always making sexual innuendos! Despite Twitter’s reputation for being business and PR friendly, it is a place of intimacy, much more personal in content and concept than Facebook. The conversations seem “real,” and I always forget that 1000 other people are reading my words as I chat with someone about their marriage. You see this happen in real life, in crowded cafes in Manhattan, where the couple seated next to you speaks openly about personal matters, ignoring the fact that you are sitting five inches away, overhearing every word.
Facebook updates tend to be cheery, like “I rocked that new job interview.” Twitter tends to get more of the S.O.S. type of messages, such as, “My grandmother just collapsed! For heaven’s sake, send prayers from the almighty!” You have to be one f*cking cold person to not get involved with others on Twitter, unless your only role in life is to tell snarky one-liners. It is overwhelming, especially for neurotic, codependent types like myself. You need me. And I need you.
(Mom, I know this sound a little batty, but you know what I’m talking about. You’re always making fun of those people on the bus who constantly have their face in their phone, texting. This is what is happening to me!)
So Day One off Twitter was going well. I avoided Twitter. I updated my Facebook status instead… three times. I published a funny photo of Jesus dishes from the 99 cent store. I re-shared and mocked a link about bloggers and brands. I looked at Kyran’s new profile photo. I read about Kathy’s surgery. And then, holy shit, I understood what was going on — I was losing my status as a broadcaster and CARING ABOUT YOU FREAKING LOSERS on FACEBOOK. Am I that lonely? Am I that afraid of being alone?
PLEASE! Leave me alone. I have work to do.
New plan. Start over again. A week without Twitter AND FACEBOOK.
I decided last night to test myself by staying off Twitter for a week. I tried this experiment a few months ago and lasted two days. Am I really such a weak person?
This morning, I was awoken at six AM by the sweetest voices floating in the air. But they were dangerous too; Sirens were trying to distract me. They were the cries of distant women needing me, naked women only wearing the reddest of lipsticks, whispering things i cannot repeat, virtual seductresses luring digital sailors with their 140 character music to shipwreck on the rocky coast of social media.
As it started to drizzle outside my window, I watched the wetness softly hitting the glass, and wondered, “Did they really need me, or did i need them? And was this all in my mind, delusions splashing around my head like the noisy wet waves of the ocean?”
I bit my lip to cause myself pain, and I repeated to myself, “Be strong. I can do this.”
Do you feel the energy as I peck with my finger.
I know you are there. But does my voice linger?
How do my words sound? What am I saying?
Why do I do this? Is anyone paying? $$$
This summer, remember to refresh with a Coke.
Ha Ha, a dumb monetization joke.
Let’s get to the point of why I am here.
I’m turning to you because no one is near.
And with a little sadness in my heart tonight.
I decided to just get up and and write.
And writing bad poems gives me a full-fledged chuckle.
Even if true poets think I’m a major schmuck-le.
(Listen to the sound of the pressing of the keys. Not the words.)
(this is a post that is completely rambling out loud with little direction, but I’ve been hearing the term “authenticity in blogging” used a lot recently. It was even the the subject of the final keynote at a recent woman’s blogging conference, as presented by Karen of Chookooloonks and Brené Brown. “Authenticity” is one of those terms that makes me uncomfortable, especially because I don’t really understand it, and you’ll notice that this post is a little edgy when I discuss it. But I am also self-aware enough to know that when something makes me uncomfortable, there is usually a reason I am fighting with it. So, I hope if either of these two bloggers end up coming here, they don’t think I am being a downer in questioning the idea, but being authentic in taking it seriously, in my own way.)
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OK. A “dating” question for women, single or otherwise. It is all hypothetical, and has really nothing to do with dating, and more about the subject of directness and authenticity. If you’re a straight man, put yourself in the man’s part of the scenario. Unless you are gay, and then you’re on your own. Or change the gender.
Hypothetical situation: You’re a woman. You’re at a bar. You’re single. You’re wearing your best dress and sexy shoes. I approach you. Or some other studly guy approaches you. But let’s assume it is me. Which encounter would be more endearing and/or successful?
1) Me (indirect and inauthentic): “Sure is crowded in here tonight. Must be the World Cup game on the TV. Didn’t realize that there are so many Brazilians living in LA. You into soccer?…”
2) Me (direct and authentic): “I was looking at you from across the room. I don’t usually say this to a woman immediately, but you have a nicely-shaped ass. I’m hanging out at this hot, noisy bar, hoping to meet someone, and I’ve picked you out of everyone else here tonight. I would like to get to know you better. Boy, I am nervous asking you this. But that ass! Wow! Would you want to go to the Chipotle next door and talk? I know it is only a fast food joint, but I’m a writer and not making a whole lot of money, so I’m hoping that isn’t a big concern to you. What do you say?”
Should I use approach number 1 or approach number 2?
Of course, this is a rather silly example. #2 borders on the rude, even if “the guy” is being more “authentic” in his dumb reason for going over to the woman, and even more direct with his request to leave and go to Chipotle. Why spend a half hour talking about the soccer match when it is all just small talk?
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I frankly think the best approach would be somewhere in between the two. I think we need directness AND artifice to effectively communicate with each other, especially in the beginning of a relationship. And I’m not just talking about male-female relationships.
When brands online start talking about being “authentic,” I say bullshit. Social media is hardly authentic. We speak to each other in 140 characters. Very few people come out and directly express their motivation. I know when I write dialogue in a script, the biggest sin is “on the nose” dialogue. I know that what people say and what they mean are usually two different things. Sometimes they don’t even know WHAT they want. Very few people come out and SAY what they really want other than James Bond villains wanting to destroy the world with a solar deflector.
I respect those who want to protect their privacy or business interests, but since when do we call that “authenticity?” How can there be authenticity when there is also so much selling and promoting. The very concept of marketing or advertising or “giveaways” involves artifice and manipulation, much like a woman wearing make-up before hitting the clubs. When consumer product brands sponsor “green” events, they are usually more concerned about good publicity than the cause. More power to them for doing good, but not terribly “authentic.” Food stylists making McDonald’s hamburgers looking juicer is artifice. Clever copywriting is artifice. I find it odd that as the internet becomes more and more about business and social manipulation, people advancing their careers by touting community, writers feigning interest for connections, more and more people are discussing authenticity. Is it really THAT complicated to be authentic? What does the word authentic mean? Authentic to others? Authentic to yourself?
I once wrote a post about Dunbar’s number, where a scientist theorizes that we can only deal effectively with 150 people. Doesn’t that mean we are being inauthentic to the thousands of followers we all hear gurus touting on their blogs as a way to show their influence? Why do we want them? If we really cared about helping others, like so many writers like to say, why don’t we just go into nursing?
Here is an authentic advertisement for McDonalds: “Hi there. We are in business to make money. People love our burgers. We know they are not healthy for you, but you like ‘em, right? And no one complains when your kids run around and make noise, right? And we are pretty cheap, if you go for the dollar meal, right? McDonald’s. We are authentic (except for the doctored photos of our burgers).
Art can never be authentic. It can strive to be an authentic representation of ourselves. We can be authentic. But very very very few of us get anywhere close.
By the way, you all have nice asses.
via the fabulous Schmutzie!
P.S. Just read this post over. I know it makes very little sense. And I am using the term authentic all wrong. Sorry. My blog.
P.S.S. Juli from Wellington Road just made an excellent point via IM about the dating scenario that made me see this post in a whole new way. Talking to that woman in the bar about her ass is just crude, and not authentic, especially since I would never say that anyway. The differences in choices #1 and #2 are about the politeness of the words. The authenticity comes into play with the ACTION. #1 could be more authentic if the goal is to get the woman into bed, and this is how I seduce a woman. #2 could be all bark with no bite. I might be just shooting into the wind, with no real confidence or adherence to my goal. My words might be brash and tell it like it is, but I would not be authentically striving for my goal. The alpha man is not about how strong his words are, but how effectively he takes action. In the second scenario, it reads like I am trying to sabotage myself. By acting so blunt, I wonder if my REAL intention is to get rejected so I feel bad, because I am neurotic, or whatever.
I guess if your goal is to become a popular blogger, you are being authentic if you stick to your game plan. The same can be said if you want to write a novel and are using your blog as a calling card. I was misusing the term authenticity. I was expressing the term in the traditional way, where authenticity meant removing the mask in relationships to others. It appears that the term “authenticity in blogging” means something else — discovering your goal or your purpose and staying true to that path. It is more about personal journey than community.
Do these two versions of authenticity conflict with each other?
Lately, when I open my Yahoo Mail, I get this advertisement. I know personalized online advertisements have been around for awhile, but what makes Yahoo! think I am looking for a woman in Redondo Beach. Have I mentioned this to any of you in my emails? Does Yahoo! know more about me than I know myself?
Another issue. Why does Yahoo! restrict me to women in Redondo Beach? Why not Hermosa Beach, which is only a few blocks away? Or what about Los Angeles proper? Does Match.com and Yahoo! think I am so lazy that I will only talk with women who live in a three mile radius from my home in tiny Redondo Beach? I DO have a car. Has Match.com become a site for singles without cars? I’m not sure I want to date a woman without a car. Before you know it, I’ll be taking this car-less woman to the grocery store and the airport, and Sophia will be pissed that I am being “used.”
These women (personally picked for me) are also too young for me. Obviously Match.com on Yahoo! is run by a man, who assumes that every man fantasizes about a fresh-faced twenty-something, still unaware of the bitter world outside of the college dorm. OK, maybe they DO know something. I never got to sleep with a twenty-three year old the first time around! Maybe I’m just a late bloomer! I needed an extra decade or so to become socialized and learn about the existence of that “clitoris” thing.
But I think I’m still hip enough to date a twenty-something. I read MamaPop. I know the current scene. In fact, I was just wondering when the new Michael Jackson album is coming out.
Next on my mind — who are these single women living in Redondo Beach? And why have I never run into one of them at the beach or supermarket?
livelife3728 looks a little sleazy, like she would give you a BJ on the first date, even if you insisted that you didn’t want one. That scares me. I know it is wrong to stereotype from one photo, but that’s life. You get that one shot to date me, and then it is over. It’s called Branding. And livelife3728 needs to get a new stylist; her hair looks greasy.
iceblue0925 is even more terrifying. Her face says: stalker. I don’t mean a person who uses the name of a grade school classmate as a ATM card password. I mean a person who leaves a dead cat in your mailbox if you don’t return her calls.
I would cross sunny9790 off the list because of her ugly hat. Ladies… men like to see your hair AND your eyes. Wearing a hat that covers both in a photo on a dating site is a major FAIL. It makes us wonder if you are hiding something. Like a Phantom of the Opera face. And apparently you have to join up and pay match.com on Yahoo! if you want to see a full photo of each woman, with the cleavage, which is the REAL deciding factor for most men.
My favorite of the single women of Redondo Beach is probably virgodoc96. I like brunettes.
1) (virgodoc96) Virgos and Pisces work well together.
2) (virgodoc96) She is apparently a doctor, so I know she can at least afford her own car.
3) (virgodoc96) She was born in 1996, which makes her… hmmm… jeez, she can be my daughter!
OK, now let’s be real here. I suspect that none of these girls live in Redondo Beach, and are merely a part of a collection of stock photos. If I lived in Toledo, Ohio, and went onto my Yahoo Mail, I would get a similar advertisment that read “View Single Women in Toledo” with the exact same headshots, right?
Then again, am I wrong, or does allaboutpink21 have a very specific look in her eyes that says, ” I want you, Neilochka! Right now!”
via Jenny, the very sexy Bloggess:
I want, just once, to wear a bright red, strapless ball gown with no apologies. I want to be shocking, and vivid and wear a dress as intensely amazing as the person I so want to be. And the more I thought about it the more I realized how often we deny ourselves that red dress and all the other capricious, ridiculous, overindulgent and silly things that we desperately want but never let ourselves have because they are simply “not sensible”. Things like flying lessons, and ballet shoes, and breaking into spontaneous song, and building a train set, and crawling onto the roof just to see the stars better. Things like cartwheels and learning how to box and painting encouraging words on your body to remind yourself that you’re worth it.
And I am worth it.
Jenny, you inspire me!
Get that novel out of your sock drawer and publish it yourself. Stand on a bus stop bench and belt out a song for the waiting strangers. Find a playground swing and remember how it felt to fly. Find your red dress. And wear the hell out of it.
Editor’s note:
After Sophia took the photo:
Neil: “My mother is gonna love this post!”
Sophia: “So will your future employer!”
About a month ago, I attended the TCM Classic Film Festival with Sophia. We received VIP passes (which cost about $1000 each), and had access to a Buick LaCrosse for the week.
For years, I have been making fun of your sponsored posts and blogging with integrity badges, so I was expecting someone to make a joke at my expense. But no one did. I guess you get more people unfollowing you on Twitter for making a breast-feeding joke than pimping Buick all week with those annoying hashtags. Apparently, no one even blinks, or cares.
I contacted my snarkiest blogging friend and asked, “What’s up?! I expected YOU to make a sarcastic comment.”
But no. Even mean bloggers are nice when it comes to blogging opportunities.
“I didn’t want to screw anything up for you,” said Mr. Not Nice Blogger. “This was General Motors! Big time!”
Before I accepted the tickets, I knew I was going to have to act professional during the event, so I promised myself to wait a month, and then reveal “the true story” to my dear readers, exposing the conflicts that I had with the PR bullies out to steal my soul.
The month is now up, but sadly, I have no gossip. It was all a positive experience. I was really lucky to get the gig. I even befriended one of the GM people on Twitter.
I was lucky in another way. The product was a luxury car. What could I say bad about it? It had leather seats and top of the line accessories, and it drove perfectly. I certainly wasn’t equipped to put it through a barrage of road tests, or test it on icy roads. I spend most of my time in the car sitting in slow Los Angeles traffic listening playing with the XM satellite radio stations, and trying to convince Sophia that we should “do it” in the back seat so I could blog about it. And my neighbor was jealous of my “new car.” What could be better than that?
The big question remains — what if the car sucked? Would I have had the “integrity” to say so on my blog? Wouldn’t you see me as an asshole to accept free tickets and a free car, and then stab GM in the back? What would be the point? Wouldn’t I just be blacklisting myself from ever working with them again?
I’m no shining beacon of truth. I would have probably said the ride was comfortable if I was given a rickshaw for the week. I was lucky that I was able to be honest with my statements about the car. I don’t know if I would have the balls to say anything bad about any product if I was first wined and dined by the company.
And would my readers really care what I said? Probably not. They all know that it is one big game. I think many of us are beginning to see corporate sponsorship as a sign of success. Would I work with GM again? Absolutely! Hey, why not have Sony sponsor next year’s Christmahanukwanzaakah Holiday concert? Would you want that? Would they be OK with that one blogger who sings a X-rated Christmas song? Or a song titled F-U, Sony Christmas?
And what does this have to do with writing? Not much.
And that is the big issue. Can all these bloggers monetizing their blogs by becoming brand ambassadors keep their position with these corporations if they honestly say something critical about that company’s product or policy? Or is it all just a game?
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